


Out of my Grave

by sebviathan



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dullahan - Freeform, Ghosts, Historical Accuracy, Late 1800s, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Psychtober, Sleepy Hollow AU, casefic, headless horseman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-17 08:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Carlton has been Santa Barbara's lead inspector for almost a decade, and one mistake may very well be about to bring that career crashing down. Just as he teeters on that brink, however, he has the responsibility of returning to his sleepy hometown of Sonora to help solve an unprecedented series of murders.He finds much more than an excuse to avoid facing his problems, while he's there.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	1. solitude

**Author's Note:**

> last year i drew [**some very self-indulgent au shassie art**](https://bassdraws.tumblr.com/post/179024285472), and this year i weaved a whole ass story together. 
> 
> and once again, the spirit of halloween has allowed me to get this done before halloween officially ended. at least in my timezone. 
> 
> i'd have set it in 1799 and/or sleepy hollow if that made any sense, but it didn't, so it's admittedly pretty far removed from the original story. but imo i made a worthy adaptation. specifically an adaptation of tim burton's adaptation. AND as always, i did a stupid amount of research to keep it historically compliant. please enjoy.

October 1899

Carlton has never been more terrified in his life. His confidence is drained. He doesn't feel sure that anything could save him, now.

Yet he mentally prepares himself even so. _Desperately_ so. He struggles up the staircase that he's taken thousands of times before, thinking up every excuse that he possibly can—if not to get himself off the hook, then at least to feel better about his own transgressions.

_Victoria may as well have left me two years ago. Our marriage only exists on paper. And it's only been in the past five or so months that I've gotten the courage to pursue happiness elsewhere—don't I deserve that? Don't I deserve to bond with someone who shares my values, who actually enjoys my company?_

_Yes, I _could_ have divorced her before pursuing Lucinda—I could have divorced her for extramarital relations that I've strongly suspected on her end long ago! But I didn't, because however much she's broken my heart I didn't believe she deserved what would come next. It would have branded her forever, so long as she stayed in Santa Barbara. I was keeping my marriage peaceful. I was doing what I could. I was doing my best._

_But, oh god_—Carlton reaches the top and leans entirely into the railing—_Victoria could so easily divorce _me_, now, if she wanted. She has the proof she needs to make it stigma-free. She could use her father's connections and garner so much sympathy, she could tell the court how I spend so much time away from home... She truly could make me appear to be even worse than the adulterer I am._

Surely—and he's known it since he received the order this morning for a private meeting, he is going to walk into Fenich's office and promptly meet his resignation. Or possibly, if the Sheriff is feeling particularly cruel, a harsh demotion.

Surely the Santa Barbara county office won't want to continue being represented by someone with such a scandal on his back.

He's about to lose his marriage and his career in one fell swoop, and the only thing he can think to say as he opens the door is,

"Please just get it over with, sir."

"Sit down, Lassiter."

He does as Fenich orders without question, though with a paranoid spike as the old man merely sighs and slides an envelope across to him.

"This arrived yesterday," he says, folding his hands politely over the desk. "Funnily enough, _before_ that little... well, you know. I was debating whether to dignify it or simply return the letter when it _occurred_ to me as I woke up, well... it may be perfect for all of us. Go ahead, read it."

Carlton only begins to feel calmer when he reads the sender's address on the back, at which he pulls the letter out so fast he nearly rips it:

_To Sheriff Fenich of Santa Barbara County:_

_Firstly, we've never spoken, but you may find proof of my credentials in the seal on this letter. My name is Hank Medel and I am the Sheriff of Tuolumne County, and where I mainly enforce law is Sonora. I am writing to you to request the assistance of your lead inspector, Carlton Lassiter, with recent murders in town._

_I am well aware this is an odd request, but hear this: I have enforced law in Sonora for over 40 years, and I have never seen this sort of brutal or mysterious murder, least of all in such quick succession as a mere week apart. In fact, the last few years here have seen little to no violent crime at all._

_I am laying myself bare and admitting that I do not have the resources to bring justice on my own. The law around here is very informal other than myself. Furthermore, I supposed that rather than hazarding a guess at what strangers in nearby counties might be competent or even willing to help, I would instead send for the help of the one man who I know for a fact can. There is no man I trust more._

_Enclosed is funds for Inspector Lassiter's travel (train tickets AND meals), should you grant me his assistance._

_Sheriff Hank Mendel_

He'd be inclined to believe that someone else entirely wrote this if not for it very clearly being in Hank's handwriting. No forgery could be this good if someone wanting to imitate that man was even plausible. This is simply by far the most formal that Carlton has _ever_ seen him write, and even aside from the murders he mentioned, that alone makes it clear how serious Hank is.

For a minute it makes Carlton forget why he initially believed he was sitting here. Then,

"Clearly your name spreads very far, Lassiter, and... I do think it would be a shame if it were soiled."

His head snaps up.

"It also does sound like that little town could use your skill, so, I'm allowing you to take this opportunity to get away from the public eye for a bit. Certainly something else new and exciting will take the press's attention soon enough—Santa Barbara never sleeps, of course! Though—still, be my guest and stay out of the county maybe a week or so longer than you need to, just in case. Waiting out the storm has always worked wonders for me."

Despite everything, as Fenich smiles and slides over the money that Hank sent, Carlton damn nearly opens his mouth to defend "that little town" and thus make it clear his name _hasn't_ stretched that far. That Hank is a personal connection, which is the last thing any detective should involve himself in. That he doesn't actually deserve this.

The whiplash of relief sure is hitting him strange. It's a good thing he has self-control.

He pushes past how little his legs want to work and stands to profusely shake the Sheriff's hand.

*

His goodbye to Victoria personally is very short and awkward and mostly non-verbal. He at least has the excuse that lives are at stake and there is little time to spare.

It's not much different than any excuse he has ever given in the past for his neglect, but that doesn't make it untrue. It should in fact be truer than ever, as he expects this journey to take three miserable days.

The highlights of those days are stepping off the train and getting something to eat while he waits for a new one. In between, Carlton has almost nothing to occupy himself with but his own thoughts. So, he thinks.

He sits and for a long time he thinks about home—about how much time has passed since he's _been_ home, mostly. He's kept in touch and visited Sonora to see Hank a few times since he initially left at 16, but the last time was almost ten years ago, before his career became as serious as it now is and settled him in Santa Barbara permanently. Before he got married.

He stands and walks around as much as the train will allow and he _tries_ not to think about Victoria, but his mind wanders nevertheless to how _I really did abandon my old self for nothing, didn't I?_ He really thought that he'd find happiness by changing himself for marriage but... that fell apart so quickly, and now he's made himself an outsider not just to his old home but his new one, too.

He looks around at the other passengers, mostly families, and feels like he doesn't even belong on _this train_. He sits back down.

He wonders what will become of Lucinda, if she'll be able to keep working in journalism thanks to a boss that's gracious as his own or if the scrutiny will put her out of a job. It occurs to Carlton that he's spoken no more to her than he has to Victoria since their affair was exposed. He's been too focused on himself to even check up on her, and now he's likely ruined _that_, too.

Now that he has the time, he thinks that he regrets his marriage to Victoria in the first place all the while that he can't bear the thought of it ending. But that distress does fade the farther and farther he gets from Santa Barbara.

He is the furthest near the end of his third day of travel, as his train finally passes into Tuolumne County. The sky grows dark and if only because he is so close to his childhood, now, Carlton is reminded of something his mother used to tell him about watching out the window after sunset—

_Don't._ Glance now and then if need be, but never watch. You might be witness to something that doesn't want you to be, and that thing may very well brand you for it. Blind you, or cover you in blood. Maybe even kill you.

Carlton doesn't believe in those old Irish myths anymore, but the idea of that in this moment—of _death_, and never having to face Victoria again, never actually having to face divorce... Well, it doesn't sound so bad at all.

*

Perhaps luckily, perhaps not, his mind can't wander too far into that territory before he meets his next stop. Any further and the train will start in the opposite direction from where he needs to be, which is now only five miles away. He could be there in less than an hour. Unfortunately,

"Next passenger train to Sonora won't be until the morning, sorry, sir."

"You've got to be kidding me. I've already been travelling for days, and I need to be in Sonora _as soon as possible_."

"Well, the soonest that's possible by train is tomorrow morning. I can arrange a stagecoach that can get you there tonight, though."

"Oh." Carlton straightens up. "Alright, great, I'll take that for free, on account of being an officer of the law." And he produces his credentials from his inside coat pocket.

The teller reads it with raised eyebrows. "Hm. I'm sorry, but as this is not your jurisdiction, I have no obligation to give you any kind of discounted rate. Would you still like a stagecoach?"

He doesn't need to ask about their normal rate to know that the remainder of Hank's money won't cover it. Instead Carlton swipes back his papers and shoves them back in their pocket with a huff.

"Nevermind," he spits at the man, picking up his suitcase. "I can take the walk."

Before he can get very far away, the teller leans out of his window and loudly warns, "I wouldn't walk alone in the dark around these parts if I were you, sir."

"It won't be all that dark," he counters. "I'll have a trail to follow and I'll have the moonlight. And I won't be alone, either—I'll have _guns_. Goodnight, now."

Only two more steps away, and, "Then I hope you don't happen upon something that can't be bested by a gun!"

A scare-tactic to convince him to rent a stagecoach anyway, he's sure.

"I said good _night_."

*

Technically he might have afforded a coach by just digging into his own funds, and he remembers very quickly that there _is_ a murderer out there, but it's the principle of the thing. He _said_ that he could hoof it, and he can.

And Carlton is perfectly fine, yes, even as the sun disappears entirely. He is so very confident that he will be fine that he hardly hesitates to abandon the main trail for a shortcut through some thicker woods, and he remains fine, _yes_, even as trees begin to obscure the moonlight. He doesn't need his eyesight so much when he has his longstanding memory. He's in the last stretch; he knows where he's going.

There _are_ noises and shapes in the dark, but that's just what the forest does at night. Carlton is prepared for it. He has his guns as promised and he has his vigilance. He knows how to assure himself periodically that he is safe. And when he hears a human voice in the distance followed by birds rustling some branches, his response is trained.

Other men might go deathly silent or run, but Carlton immediately drops his suitcase, raises his gun, and shouts,

"Identify yourself!"

Rather than a name, the next thing he hears is a gunshot. What little light there is lets him see a bullet ripping through bark not ten feet from himself.

Instinctively he finds the silhouette and pulls his own trigger.

Nothing happens. _What?_

He keeps the aim and pulls again. Nothing. _Again._ He knows for a fact that this revolver is loaded, but all it will do is click.

Another shot rings out from the stranger's direction.

Alright. _Now_ it's time to run.

He sprints as fast as his disproportionately long legs can carry him, and all of the teasing he's ever endured for his lankiness now feels _incredibly_ worth the strides he can make even as he's being struck by every branch and spiderweb on the way—it's all worth it, of course, knowing he's so cloaked by trees that he won't be _seen_ let alone shot. He feels practically none of it, he's too focused on the wind growing louder and louder in his ears and the light peeking through the other end of the thicket—

_So_ focused that as he leaves it, he collides with something hard enough to then fall directly onto his back.

His head is still swimming by the time he feels large hands pulling him up by the lapel and hears,

"Oh, shit—that was _you_ out there, Binky?"

The swimming stops. "_Hank?_"

At once he's engulfed in a hug that he doesn't fight whatsoever, even as his already very little air is squeezed out of him. Partially because his energy is shot, but really, he's too relieved to care.

Hank lets go of him quickly enough, anyway.

"Don't get me wrong, Binky, I'm excited to see ya, but what the _hell_ were you doin' running through the woods in the dead of the night? Didn't I give you money for a train?"

"I got _impatient_—" He coughs, lacking the breath to continue right away. "...God dammit, Hank, I thought you were whoever's been killing people out here. What are _you_ doing, shooting at any stranger you see in the woods?"

"'Cause I issued a town-wide curfew when the last murder happened, so no one who's innocent should _be_ in these woods at this hour. No one but me, anyway...," Hank trails off, like he's thinking to himself. Then he grasps Carlton's shoulder again. "But nevermind that now—you're here! And thank _God_ you are. Come on."

He remembers that he left his suitcase behind in the woods, and it distresses him to just continue to leave it, but it's certainly a better idea to return for it in the morning. So he follows, and he... doesn't exactly calm down from finally seeing Sonora. Even in mere moonlight the town has evidently doubled in size since he was last here, which makes it all seem extra quiet.

Walking into the Sheriff's office feels like a breath of fresh air, though, stale as it is compared to the outside. Hank truly is the one thing Carlton can count on to never change.

The only thing about the room that isn't already seared into his long-term memory is a box that sits on Hank's desk, full of newspaper clippings that draw him closer the moment he rests his eyes on them. Even from some feet away, he naturally recognizes his own face and name.

He leans over the desk and flips through them, finding that each one features him one way or another. And as he grins up at Hank, he finds one to match.

"...I got the post office to keep up a subscription to the Santa Barbara Press for me," the man tells him, shrugging innocently. "Since the first time you wrote and told me that a case of yours made it to the paper, I think... You know I'm real proud of you, Binky. And o'course having all this record of what you're capable of, I figured you were this town's best bet."

Carlton has the urge to hug him again or to say_ something_ inevitably sappy, but resists it in favor of finally asking,

"Now, what exactly _is_ happening, Hank?"

Hank sighs, nods, and takes a seat. Carlton remains where he is.

"Well." He already looks paler. "Over the past three weeks, once each week, three people in town have been killed. First was a near stranger to me—a man called Drimmer who was only in town two days. I spoke to him once because he asked about workin' for me—'course I told him thanks but I didn't need any help, and he wasn't happy about that. He said he'd leave that evening and we found him the next morning. Next week, it was Mr. Trout from the bank. Then a few days ago, it was the mayor."

Carlton expects him to continue, but he doesn't. Almost like he's trying to avoid one fact in particular.

"How were they killed?"

"All three were... they had their heads chopped clean off. Seemed like axe cuts, but there's no way I could be sure, seein' as there's all sorts of fancy tools now... The best I've really been able to do is ask around town to take a look inside folks' toolsheds, see if anyone answered suspiciously... No one has, far as I could tell. I've never—you _know_ I've never dealt with nothin' like this before, Binky. Worst crime Sonora's had in years is theft, _maybe_ some fights... This sort of thing just doesn't happen around here. And I don't have the investigation... the detective-type mind that you do. Don't have much to help me 'round here, neither."

Hank then tips his head back to get the final dregs of what seems like a days-old whiskey bottle.

"What about your deputy sheriff?" Carlton asks, after a moment. "Henry Spencer, right?"

"Oh, Spencer retired shortly after the last time you were here, actually. Think the guy just got tired, with his wife n' kid both bein' gone. I don't really blame him."

"And you didn't _replace_ him in all this time?"

"Don't be silly, 'course I did. He's... not exactly the detective type either, though. Not sure if you'd like him—_I_ sure don't always agree with him, but he's good at what he does. Getting folks' trust and the like." Hank looks like he's musing on that for a few seconds, staring into nothing until he abruptly stands up. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll meet him tomorrow. Until then we should both hit the hay. Sorry I... don't have much space in here, but don't worry, after tonight I can figure out some better arrangements for you—"

"Hank, please, I'm a grown man," Carlton all but whines. "I can make my own arrangements."

Hank puts his hands up in defense. "Alright, Binky, just offering."

He then gives Carlton a mere bedroll and pillow before leaving to his own small bedroom upstairs. It's only once he's gone that it occurs to Carlton that perhaps he shouldn't have refused Hank's help so quickly when the man actually knows these people best, and when he himself hasn't been home in about a decade. He maybe should have asked more questions about the murders, too. Hank sure did seem shaken by them, though, so maybe not. It's too late anyway.

What he really should do now is hit the hay like Hank said, and get some rest before trying to get out there and interrogate the townspeople tomorrow.

He _should_, but he keeps himself up for another hour, at least, sitting by the gas lamp and trying to figure out _what_ exactly was jamming his revolver earlier.


	2. in the woods somewhere

He wakes up sweaty, blinking away several hours' worth of repetitions of his run through the woods last night—only this time, there was some actual entity at his back. Something large and fast and shapeless but ready to chop off his head.

He imagines that just about this whole town has had similar nightmares lately, so he doesn't dwell on it beyond allowing it to remind him to go retrieve his suitcase, now that it's daylight.

Then Carlton takes one step outside and sees that very suitcase sitting right by the door. _Huh._ Hank must have gotten it for him. Which he supposes also means that Hank has left to do his job for the day.

Now, it's not that Carlton expected or wanted to have his hand held, but he can't help but feel a bit odd about having to introduce himself to the town alone, with a mere badge that applies only several counties south to prove his qualifications. He might as well have nothing, really, as what really matters around here is not papers but the _people_ you know. And even those in town who might remember him... don't exactly know him anymore.

But he'll tough it out. He fixes up his hair and clothes and face the best that he can in Hank's mirror, and he takes a small enough piece of Hank's jerky that he's sure the man won't notice, and he heads out into town... to find it totally empty. Actually _scarily_ empty.

Carlton would be more concerned about that if it didn't give him the chance to tour the streets completely alone and gape shamelessly at everything that's changed. Some of it, he remembers Hank mentioning in his letters—like the county courthouse that was finished just last year. Really, he notices more that he doesn't recognize than what he does. New large homes, revamped businesses, more stagecoaches, an entire new inn, all far more _wood_ than brick...

One thing that _doesn't_ seem to have changed, reminiscent of the stagnation of the Sheriff's office, is the county jail. It's the same size as it ever was.

Carlton almost forgets, after some time, that he is walking in empty streets at what should be a relatively busy hour. Then the sound of bronze fills the air and a few seconds later he sees doors opening down the road, allowing hundreds of people to pour out.

And now he feels stupid for not realizing. He wouldn't blame himself for losing track of time on the train, but this should have been obvious. Of_ course_ that's why it was empty. It's Sunday morning.

He also feels awkward, now, being the one standing out here alone as church lets out. Especially as it's the church that he personally attended, growing up. He may have only implicitly denounced it when he moved to the city, but he still has a moment of fear that it'll be plain on his face to those who walk past him now.

Exactly _what_ he's afraid they'll do, Carlton isn't sure, but all he does receive is some odd looks. He does vaguely recognize some of the older people in the crowd, too, and wonders if they recognize him back. If they do, no one says anything. Typical Irish Catholics.

He is then quickly reminded of one person who almost certainly _will_ not only remember him, but also be of great help. _If he's even still alive._

Not ten whole steps into St. Patrick's Catholic parish and he sees Father Wesley's face light up with intrigue.

"Carlton Lassiter, is that you?"

"Father!" he greets, striding forward for the briefest of warm handshakes. The old priest's hand shakes a bit more than it should. "...Yes, it's me. Now, before you get your hopes up, I'm _not_ back in Sonora for good. I'm here for business."

*

"...Well, I'm very grateful for your coming here, Carlton, but I must be honest. I'm not sure how much help you can be to Sonora."

He leans back warily, more at the Father's grave tone than his words.

"Why do you say that?"

Father Wesley's hands begin shaking again.

"I believe... quite firmly, I must say, that what's happening in this town is a direct result of something too great for one man to fix. Least of all a lawman—no offense, Carlton. But it's simply out of your domain. It's the deteriorating morality of the town as the population grows, unchecked, and industry takes over. These brutal deaths as of late, I believe... are our punishment. And until our sin stops, the deaths will not either."

And Carlton straightens back up, his wariness gone.

"...So you're saying," he tries not to laugh, "you believe _God_ is the one decapitating townsfolk."

"I'm sure to a city detective it sounds unbelievable, and I don't fault you for that," the Father says, with no less gravity. "But I _assure_ you that there is in fact an agent of God's that has been looking after Sonora for some time—and that that very agent has... decided, recently, that he no longer approves. I know because I've seen him myself."

"You've _seen_ him?"

The Father gives him a single, short nod. "Yes. Multiple times."

Alright, that's a little promising. Just because he thinks he's seen God doesn't mean he didn't see anything at _all_. Carlton quickly retrieves a small notebook and pencil from his pocket and positions them at the ready.

"Okay—what does he look like?"

"Well, it's only been from a distance and only at night, but... He is a headless man, always carrying his head in his hand or the middle of his arm. And always atop a horse."

_Alright, nevermind again._ Carlton keeps his sigh short.

"...I think I get it. He's headless, so now he has to take other people's heads, right?"

"I can tell you think I'm joking, but I'm not," the other man snaps. Or gets as close to snapping as an old priest ever will. "The severing of one's body from their head is a particular kind of trauma on the soul and _certainly_ one suitable for punishment like this. Also, many saints lost their heads in death, you know. I think it may very well be one of them."

Now, Carlton just bites his lip and nods, and he quickly scribbles down '_headless ghost?_' into his notebook. Mostly for his own amusement. Then he claps the book shut.

"Oh, I don't think you're necessarily joking." _Just that you're crazy._ "I'll... certainly keep all that in mind."

Then he stands up from the pews to leave and hopefully do some more _productive_ questioning, turning back just once shortly before reaching the doors:

"One last question, Father—I don't suppose you know where in town the first victim was staying, before he was killed?"

***

As usual, main plan of action is to retrace the victims' steps, starting with the first.

Unfortunately the higher staff at the Sonora Inn can't give him much—not even an affordable room. And they get _especially_ short with him after he chews them out for not having any kind of discount for officers of the law who are literally only here to help rid their town of a murderer. He has a feeling that things might be different if he simply went and got Hank and then came back, but he knows he couldn't actually stand to admit to Hank that he can't secure himself a place.

The inn's cleaning staff and some of its patrons, meanwhile, do add a decent amount to the story:

Benjamin Drimmer clearly had a lot of money to spare, but in his demeanor did not act like a rich man. He spent a lot of time inquiring about available land in and around Sonora, and one person told him that most of it was owned by the farmer Frank O'Hara. He'd asked how he might speak to Mr. O'Hara, was told that the man is very busy and often travelling, then asked about the man's family, and someone mentioned that his daughter was the town schoolteacher—and Drimmer immediately took off.

Hearing that, now, so does Carlton.

He doesn't wholeheartedly expect to find her there on a Sunday, but he thinks it sensible to check there first, seeing as it's much closer than the O'Hara estate (a place that he actually is somewhat familiar with). And what luck, she _is_ there, which he can see from a distance because she's grading assignments with the doors and windows all wide open.

Furthermore, she actually jumps up with recognition before he finishes saying his name.

"Inspector Lassiter! Yes, Hank told me about you—not too much, but enough for me to know that you're exactly what Sonora needs. And he let me see those articles about your cases. Oh—not for anything _weird_," she clarifies abruptly, probably in response to the look on Carlton's face. "He just wanted my help in writing a proper letter to your own Sheriff. Ultimately I just wrote it _for_ him and had him copy, you know, but... Anyway! I'm Juliet O'Hara and I'm _delighted_ to meet you."

Carlton is almost too overwhelmed to shake her hand, and then as he does, Ms. O'Hara seems to decide to just overwhelm him entirely:

"I don't know if you could tell, but I just want to tell you I have _very_ much respect for what you do. Why, were it legal for a woman to help keep peace in your line of work, I wouldn't hesitate—though I suppose I've settled for helping children, which is certainly a noble work in its own right, I'm sure you agree, but I really _would_ like to do something more. Work for the mayor's office, maybe... We've got a woman mayor now, you know, so it's on the table as far as I'm concerned. I know some of the men in this town might not like the idea of yet another woman being in office above them, but—"

"I'm sorry, can you please—" He just _has_ to cut her off, but then he still struggles to gather his thoughts after the fact.

"Oh, no, _I'm_ sorry," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. Then she hurriedly drags a student chair to the front of her desk and sits down in her own. "I got a bit ahead of myself—I'm sure you have questions for me?"

"Yes, I do." He sighs in relief, and sits down.

The moment that he mentions Drimmer, Ms. O'Hara bows her head in mourning. But only briefly, as though it's solely for the social obligation and nothing else.

"We didn't talk for long," she tells him. "Or at least, _I_ didn't talk for long. He wanted to buy some of my father's land, and I told him I wanted no involvement in my father's business affairs so he could simply go wait outside of the estate if he wanted to talk to him so badly."

"And did he?"

She exhales sharply. "No, he stayed and _continued_ talking until he had just about no choice but to leave due to my students returning from recess."

"Talking about _what_?"

"Himself, mostly. And me. Some attempt at flirting, I think. He didn't seem very deterred by knowing I'm spoken for."

Considering all that, Carlton wouldn't fault her one bit for being less than respectful about this man's death, and yet she remains calm and soft-spoken. Very often that sort of behavior might make him suspicious of her concealing information, but he sincerely doubts that she'd have enthusiastically helped in calling him here if she wasn't genuine.

He then asks that she go into a bit more detail, tell him anything that she knows about what Drimmer did over his stay in Sonora, if she knows how he might be connected to the other victims—and he has no doubt that she's answering to the best of her ability, though it's just minorly helpful. So he's already thinking that he'll leave very soon anyway when he hears bootsteps on the wooden stairs out front.

"Heya, sweetie—"

Carlton turns to see a man looking to be in his 50s, carrying a basket and striding directly for Ms. O'Hara's desk. He assumes this man must be her father for one entire second—then sees him lean down and kiss her on the mouth. Then the man faces _him_.

Carlton doesn't waste the slightest moment in standing up.

"Who's the scarecrow? ...You're not trying to steal my girl, now, are ya?"

She stands up with them, rolling her eyes, and gives the man a kind of "oh, _stop_" hit on the arm. Now, Carlton _does_ take a moment to glance between them.

"Oh, no, absolutely not. She's far too young for me," he scoffs pointedly. He neglects to even think about, let alone mention, the fact that he's also technically married. And he finds catharsis in the way the other man's face stiffens before he says, "I'm Inspector Carlton Lassiter. I've been called up here from Santa Barbara County by Sheriff Hank Mendel, to investigate Sonora's recent murders."

That's maybe the tenth time that he's said any form of that, today, and is easily his _favorite_ time.

At least in the moment, it is.

"Oh! Yeah, Hank told me about you—the kid who went off to become a big city detective. He seems to think you're gonna save us all... Well. I sure hope you can do my job better than I can."

With that, the man extends his hand. Carlton narrows his eyes and cocks his head as he takes it.

"Deputy Sheriff Cameron Luntz," the man says. "I swear to you, I've been doing everything I can to work some kinda confession outta someone. The _secret_, y'know, is acting like a friend who only wants the best for them... and then _slowly_ working your way into making demands."

Alright, this is easily his _least_ favorite hand that he's shaken today. He already hates the way that this guy is acting like he has something to teach him, and _that_ just adds onto his disdain for Luntz's initial way of addressing him, his choice in romance, his _middle-part haircut_...

"And how has that worked for you so far?" Carlton asks through all but gritted teeth.

"Almost perfectly," Luntz smirks. But he lets it fall after a moment. "Just... not on this particular case."

"I wouldn't beat yourself up about it," says Ms. O'Hara, gently gripping his arm and draping herself over it. Carlton _especially_ hates that. "You've never had to find a murderer before."

"Well!" Carlton purposely startles them apart. "I _have_ found _and_ arrested... _many_ murderers. So I'd say you're now in better hands. I don't suppose you have any suspects yet?"

Luntz doesn't appear offended but rather, lets out a short laugh.

"None except the Headless Horseman."

Then Carlton lets out one of his own in spite of himself. "You talked to Father Wesley too, huh?"

"Father Wesley and _everyone else_ in Sonora... I thought you were from around here?"

He bristles. "I am."

"Then—_oh_, nevermind, the sightings did only start about seven, eight years ago, didn't they... Sort of feels like the legend's always been a part of this place. Hm. Anyhow, I can only guess you're not the superstitious type, in which case, don't worry about it." Luntz pats his shoulder and smiles, then, like a father might. Carlton wants to barf. "Now, uh... you think you can give me some alone time with Juliet here? I brought her lunch and I was hoping to eat it before it got cold."

"..._Depends_—do you have any other information you wanted to share with me, Ms. O'Hara?"

He's already sure that she doesn't, but he'll be damned if he lets himself appear to work around _this_ man's desires.

She says no, of course, and to please call her Juliet. He makes no promises.

*

The rest of Carlton's day is spent figuring out as detailed a timeline of Drimmer's days spent in Sonora as he can possibly piece together. That includes visiting the O'Hara estate and speaking to Frank's wife, who _did_ talk to Drimmer and simply told him that she could write his information down and give it to her husband when he next returned home. Though she "couldn't be at all certain what that will be."

Otherwise, apparently about every major business in Sonora has something to tell him about the man. Most of it is very similar and paints an easy, if not _entirely_ chronological story:

Ultimately it sounds like Drimmer was trying desperately for all of those two days to find something, _anything_ in Sonora to settle down into. Particularly, to invest a large amount of money somewhere and to acquire some authority. No one wanted to sell any share of their land or business to him, however, and neither the Sheriff nor the county office nor the mayor wanted to hire him.

After a mere two days he was frustrated enough to give up—or perhaps just feeling very unwelcome—and got ready to move onto some other town. He checked out of the Sonora Inn very late and appeared to leave on horseback.

The next morning, the horse was found wandering around town alone, Drimmer's bags still hooked onto it.

His body was found on one side of Sonora's city limits sign, and his head on the other.

Then during what little investigation was done, as the most confusing part of that timeline: _No_ money or other valuables appeared to have been stolen.

But practically overshadowing _all_ of that, if Carlton is being quite honest with himself, is how many more times he has to hear about the Headless Horseman. Maybe he was only inclined to brush it off because of his deep dislike for the man, but he really didn't think Luntz meant _this_.

"He haunts and punishes the wicked in Sonora," people tell him when he expresses confusion as to exactly what the Horseman is. "He _used_ to only kill the really nasty ones, but recently he just snapped."

"He's a curse that fed off all the violent men Sonora had to offer, but we don't got any left. He has no choice but to go after lesser and lesser evils."

"Drimmer and Trout and Swaggerty must've all been up to something horrible in secret for the Horseman to come after them like this, I'm sure," others say. "The same as all the others he executed in the past. We always found out one way or another."

And others, "Of course I don't think the Horseman's doing this. I just hope he catches the sonovabitch who is."

"Don't be stupid," yet more respond, "if he hasn't caught the killer yet, then he never will. Clearly he's just abandoned us."

After the first few times, Carlton tries to avoid the topic as much as possible and skip straight to the facts. But then after a few more, he can't help a sort of morbid curiosity as to precisely how _much_ of the town unhesitatingly believes in this spectre. Particularly how many are convinced it must be the killer and have therefore not suspected their fellow man one bit.

Then there are _much_ more, and he doesn't even try to help getting steadily ruder and ruder or outright demanding "_real_ answers to my questions, _please_." He doesn't get very many.

He's about at his wit's end by the time he practically barges into the Sheriff's office later that evening.

"Hey, Hank, quick question—why didn't you think to mention that everyone in Sonora has gone fucking insane?"

"You watch that language, Binky," Hank snaps back before he even seems to register anything else. Then he sits upright and faces him. "Who's insane?"

Carlton takes a moment to finish hanging up his coat and furiously rub at his face, then steps further into the room. "Does the _Headless Horseman_ mean anything to you?"

"That local legend? Yeah, I remember that starting some years back. Pretty helpful at keepin' the peace, I gotta say."

He says that so casually that Carlton has to make sure he heard him right.

"Wait—you don't actually... _believ_e in him, do you, Hank?"

"...Well, I can't say I've ever seen him, so I'm not sure. But I _do_ know for sure that the idea of him keeps this town and a lot a' the rest of the county in check, for the most part. Why d'you think it's just been me and Deputy Luntz all this time? Townsfolk are just plain too scared to do anything worse than a robbery now and then. Parents tell their kids about him so they'll behave, and it works. Heck, folks even get guilty enough, sayin' they're being haunted by the Horseman, to come to me and return the stuff they stole. Or confess they hit their wives or kids and ask for time in the cell. Whatever he is, I owe a lot to him."

That all sounds too insane to be true, but the proof is right in front of him. Even with something like this, he's positive that Hank wouldn't lie to him. Especially not in so complex a story all the while that he just sits and stokes his fireplace.

The most concerning thing to Carlton, really, is that this somehow _all_ happened while he was gone. As though he might have somehow prevented it were he here. He takes a deep breath and sits down.

"O—okay... _well_, according to more than half the town, your peace-keeping local legend is the one chopping heads. I assume you don't think so?"

"'Course not!" he says, like he's offended on the Horseman's behalf. "Now, if people were getting chased off a' cliffs in the past weeks, it'd be a different story. That's _why_ I called you here, Binky. I really have no idea what's going on."

_Damn._ Carlton_ thought_ that he'd had an idea earlier, about these murders being motivated by money, but that was shot when he realized nothing was stolen off of Drimmer. At least there are two more victims whose steps he can retrace, find different angles in... but he can't get back out there at this hour. Especially not as he smells the beans that Hank just put over the fire and realizes how starving he is.

Halfway through dinner, he also realizes that he forgot to secure other arrangements for himself today. Which means he's staying in Hank's cluttered office again.

He tells himself that it's at least still preferable to staying at home.

***

A roll of thunder wakes him up after less than an hour of sleep. Despite his grogginess, the first thing that Carlton thinks is that nothing about the weather, today, suggested rain.

He stands up and pulls back the window curtains to see none, either.

Just as he's about to write it off entirely as something his dream made up and to lie back down, though, he hears it again. And he realizes that in a sense his dream _did_ still make it up—it turned the noise into a simpler one, because his sleep-addled brain couldn't hear it for what it actually was. _Horse hooves._

Jolted, now, into a far more awake state, Carlton rushes to get a gas lamp lit and then climb the stairs to Hank's bedroom. Several stairs from the top, he already hears Hank snoring.

Which means someone is out there who shouldn't be.

In one of the swiftest moves he's ever done he has his boots, coat, and revolver all on his person before he makes it directly out the door, leaving it swinging behind him as he searches for the source of the noise. It takes him only a few frantic turns of his head to see it, then—a silhouette, down the road, of a man riding away on a horse. Nothing recognizable. Just stark black against a dusk sky.

Part of him knows that it's not smart at all, and that he might in fact call it _stupid_, to go chasing after someone in the dark alone. Especially when he's got half the legs and less than half the speed. But it feels right in the moment. It feels like he has no choice.

He sees the direction that the silhouette has gone in and tries to replicate it on a parallel road, rather than be right up behind it. Glimpses of it from past the buildings reach him and he keeps going, trying very hard to keep the gas lamp steady, following those flashes of a dark shape all the way past the town and into the fields, toward the orchards—

And he realizes about ten seconds too late that he's run directly into a swath of trees, with no idea which direction to look, now. Carlton holds the lamp out as far as his arm stretches, twisting around desperately for another glimpse that he can chase.

For a minute he sees nothing, and then he breaches the other side and steps into an empty dirt road. And there he is. There _it_ is.

Rather than escaping him, now, the object of his suspicions grows larger and clearer in the moonlight. The horse's hooves beat the ground with an otherworldly force. And the man riding it... has no apparent head on his shoulders, but instead in his hand.

Every thought in Carlton's mind of how _this cannot be real_ is overridden by an instinct that forces him to step back into the obscurity of the trees. He can't help it. He's from an Irish family. He's heard of the Dullahan, he grew up on those stories, he grew up _fearing_ those stories. It rides on a horse and it holds its head in one hand and a whip made of a human spine in the other, and it punishes those who see it, and it stops when someone is to die.

When the hoof beats grow so loud that it's sure to pass him in the very next moment, his fear very nearly gets the best of him and has him shut his eyes and move his hands to cover his ears so that he won't hear the Dullahan call out his name—

His fear_ nearly_ does, but before his eyes can quite close he sees the Dullahan's head anyway. At once he is too confused to be afraid. Time seems to slow as he makes eye-contact with it, finding that not only is it not rotting nor at all disgusting like Carlton was told as a child that it would be, but he swears that he _recognizes_ the face. What's more, it's... sticking its tongue out at him?

Time remains slow exactly long enough for Carlton to catch the slightest shift in expression on the Dullahan's face. Then the horse seems to catch a hoof on something and trip, abruptly throwing its rider off.

Carlton hears a yelp and two thumps, then a distant groan. In spite of his shock it's his trained instinct to rush forward—at least after glancing at the horse, whose eyes are both entirely white and glowing—to where the body landed. Where it's now slowly getting onto its knees and reaching around blindly in the dirt. Headless.

He hears another voice in the distance—"_Dammit, where'd it go?_"

Now that true fear for this situation has no reason to stay, Carlton can feel his detective's mind slowly seeping back in. Details other than the lack of a head begin standing out to him. Mainly, that the clothes on this body are... modern? Looking just a bit closer at the trousers, he's fairly sure those are jeans. Only the dark, even, keeps him from being certain that they're in fact _Levi's_.

Then it clicks, and his whole body relaxes.

"Oh _shit_—alright, I get it." He breathes a deep sigh and steps closer, "You can cut it out now, I _know_ it's a prank. Obviously you just have your actual head underneath a cape or something..."

Carlton then reaches down to pull said cape out... but feels no fabric at all. He pulls his hand away and, tentatively, puts it back into what he thought must have been a fake neck. It's empty but for an evident spine sticking out of the middle.

"...Uh. Okay, pretty good trick, but—"

The shoulders won't squeeze down, either. They feel real. He looks down and sees that the torso is a perfectly normal length. The hands rest where they should. Everything is almost distractingly well-built. The only thing off about this body is... no head. There truly is no head.

"I get that this is a really confusing time for you and everything," shouts that distant voice again, as the body in front of him stands and brushes the dirt off its limbs—"and I know I _did_ just scare you on purpose." The body's arms slowly reach up to gently grasp his own. "_But_, do you think you can help me find my head? I have no sense of direction without being able to see my body, and I'm pretty sure it rolled into a bush."

"Uh..." If it's not a prank, then it must be a dream. Carlton tries to blink it away to no avail. "...Why should I help you?"

By the way that the body stands, then, Carlton imagines the head it doesn't have cocked to one side.

"Well, you're a man of the law, aren't you? You're supposed to help people."

"You're... not a person, though, you're—"

"_Wow!_" It throws its hands up and, quickly after, puts them on its hips. "Don't you think it's kind of rude to go around trying to say what is and isn't a person? Just because I'm dead? I don't think it's specified in any code of ethics that you should only be helping _living_ people or that someone should be left to rot _just_ because they're already rotting."

All Carlton can possibly do in response is stare in baffled silence. The Dullahan—if that's _even_ what this is—doesn't let it last for long.

"Okay, the _least_ you can do is help my body get back to Blueberry so I can grab a temporary replacement."

He feels his head getting even lighter. "...Blueberry?"

"Yeah, my horse, Blue—oh, nevermind! Here she comes."

_Certainly not the name I'd have chosen for a spectral horse,_ Carlton thinks just vaguely as he watches her trot up to the headless body, which reaches out one arm to feel for the snout, give it a pat, and then feel along the neck and body until reaching the bag that's on the side. As if this all couldn't get stranger, it proceeds to pull out a _pineapple_ of all things—one that appears to have been carved like a jack-o-lantern. And it plops it right down onto its empty neck. A fire immediately appears to be lit inside.

"Oh, that's _so_ much better...," comes the same voice from before, now sounding like it's actually coming directly from the body. At least the mouth on the carving doesn't move.

After a moment of looking around it jogs away to retrieve its real head from the grass, and returns with it under one arm.

"Well, I admit I feel pretty embarrassed... You doing alright, Inspector?" it addresses Carlton, whose feet have been planted in one spot for so long that he feels like he's sinking. "...Why, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Hit me."

"Pardon?" The severed head's eyebrows raise.

"Punch me—or slap me, or something, so I can either _know_ that this is real or the pain will wake me up."

The Dullahan looks like it's contemplating that for a good few seconds, and then finally shrugs and says,

"If you insist."

It slaps the horse on the ass, and the last thing Carlton sees is a hoof coming for his face before he is swiftly sent to nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sonora's very quick growth, both industrially and population-wise, in the 1890s is historically accurate, btw. they got big in the lumber industry and had a second gold rush basically.
> 
> also if you guessed that juliet is a (subverted) equivalent to katrina and luntz is brom bones, you guessed correctly. 
> 
> and yes, i DID name shawn's ghost horse after gus's car.


	3. when the man comes around

Only his second night here and he's already having ridiculous nightmares... _Ugh._ And migraines, too.

Carlton rubs his forehead and grumbles all through brewing himself some coffee (somewhat because he actually despises the taste of plain coffee) as well as through bathing in Hank's poor excuse for a tub. It at least reminds him that _first things first_, before he gets into today's investigation plans, he should find somewhere other than here to stay in the following nights.

By the time he's dressed, he thinks he has an idea.

For the time that it takes to get there, he continues to be plagued by his dream against his will. The recognition that he felt for that severed head will not leave him in particular. He _knows_ that he felt it, and yet he cannot place who it might have been a likeness of.

_Likely only someone I saw in town yesterday,_ he eventually assures himself. _Someone I found annoying enough to subconsciously put in that role._

And that's all he'll allow himself to dwell on that, because he has no time left. He's got to ask Ms. O'Hara if she has room for a lodger.

"I expect to be staying in town at least a few more days, and Sheriff Hank has very little room, you see, and I'm not sure for how long I might afford a room at any of the local hotels," he explains before she has any chance to question. "You are... also just about the only person in town who seems to properly appreciate my line of work, so I thought you might be willing to spare a room in your estate—"

"My estate?" She looks very confused for a moment, and then laughs. "Oh, _no_, that's my father's estate. I live_ here_."

Carlton frowns. "He makes you live on your own?"

"He doesn't _make_ me do anything. I choose to live here."

"Why on earth would you do that?"

Now she actually looks hesitant to answer.

"Well, Inspector, if you _must_ know, I... don't approve of the unethical means through which my father got his wealth. Frankly, I would prefer not to share in it. And..." She cranes her neck to glance outside at the handful of students approaching. "I'm sorry, but the only living space I have here is a small attic bedroom. It's—_oh_, wait, _actually_! ...Come to think of it, I do have a friend who certainly has the space to house you and wouldn't charge you a cent, so long as I'm the one to tell him about you. I'll be sure to do that when he drops by today just like he always does, and _you_ just make sure to go to the farmhouse that's all the way past the orchards and to the right. It's small but you can't miss it. Would you like me to write that down?"

She says that all so fast that he just manages to keep up. He's about to tell Ms. O'Hara no thanks and _I'll manage_, but she's already writing it.

Carlton almost trips over his words as he thanks her, and comes even close to tripping over a child on his way out.

*

Harris Trout's coworkers at the bank are thankfully much less likely than the average Sonora citizen to jump to blaming the Headless Horseman. What they do tell him, however, is nearly just as odd.

"Yes, we all really hated that fellow," absolutely no one hesitates to say. "Horrible to work with, far worse to work _under_, and he had just the _strangest_ of habits."

Every single day for the last five months that the man worked at the bank, he was observed going about a frighteningly strict schedule. Eating only very small meals and using an hourglass to decide when he would eat his next one. Doing anything else of note exclusively _on_ the hour. Training himself to go longer and longer without blinking, or breathing. Even ignoring clients in order to accomplish these things.

The man had the objective qualifications for this line of work, and perhaps some relation to someone of importance, but that was it. He was all too ready to shout at any person around him and it was rarely, if ever, justified. He had little sense of decorum regardless of the setting. He "almost seemed like he didn't even _want_ this job."

It's no surprise to hear that all of Trout's clients hated him as well. Nor even that the client that supposedly hates him most of all is his own mother.

Naturally, which is to say that _the vindictiveness and righteousness of a mother is one he is most familiar with_, Carlton visits her first.

Meredith Trout _is_ clearly mourning her son. She also tells him outright that she cannot remember the last time Harris spoke to her without yelling and practically making her cry. But if nothing else, she's too frail to be a real suspect.

After her, Trout's ledger gives Carlton a list of all of his business dealings around town. Each of those people were either denied, or had the threat of their loan being denied held over them until they complied with ridiculous standards. His approval was contingent on hardly anything consistent, either.

His most recent failed clients included even Deputy Luntz, who'd wanted the bank's help in getting a larger sheriff's office—something that could be shared and wouldn't need to be attached to Hank's home. Something that could belong to both of them and be more readily available to the public.

"He refused on the basis that there '_isn't enough crime_ in Sonora to justify the need for it'—how ridiculous is _that_?" Luntz tells him, then promptly catches himself and drops his head—"Bless his soul, of course."

The days preceding Trout's murder were no less on schedule than usual, as far as anyone knows. Just about the only unplanned event seemed to be the death itself.

His body was found outside the bank's back door, in the spot that he would stand and smoke exactly one-fourth of a cigar every night before going home. The remainder of the cigar was still between his teeth after his head separated, the burning end seemingly extinguished by whoever killed him.

Despite how little Carlton actually knows about Trout's appearance, it's almost too easy for him to imagine a man on a horse riding by, axe in one extended arm, gracefully yet anticlimactically taking this man's head right off. He quickly shakes that image away and focuses instead on a familiar and frustrating fact:

Keys to the bank remained on his person, and nothing was stolen.

Carlton wants to yell to some higher power, then, _Alright! I get it! The killer clearly had no interest in money!_

And subsequently, _why not at least take the opportunity, though?_

Perhaps it was a matter of time. Perhaps the killer was willing to take no risks of being caught. Perhaps the killer is a _genius_ who knows the best way to throw the law off their trail. Perhaps... too many things.

At the very least, by the end of the day Carlton has established a common theme between the first two victims (and most likely the third as well considering that he was a politician): They were both jerks who could have easily incited the rage of quite literally every single person that they've ever met.

It truly is the _very_ least.

*

He begins heading to that house that Ms. O'Hara told him about only when there's no daylight left to investigate further. Just a faint orange light remains above the treetops as he stops outside the front door.

He raises his fist to knock and stops when he hears two voices, sounding like they're from around the side of the house.

"I just don't understand why you bring her _apples_ of all things when her father literally owns all but maybe ten of the apple trees in Sonora."

"Because she explicitly doesn't want anything that her father owns, Shawn, I've told you this before. As far as she's concerned, mine are the only guilt-free apples in the area. I'm providing a needed service."

"Yeah, one of many that you _could_ be providing, if you know what I—_ow_!"

That sounds like it trails off, after which Carlton decides to alert them to his presence by knocking loudly, starting in their direction, and shouting out,

"_Burton Guster?_ It's Inspector Lassiter! Ms. O'Hara should have told—"

Then he stops when he passes the edge of the house and sees only one, dark-skinned, bald man. And he frowns.

"Yes—Lassiter, I remember. Call me Gus," the man says, striding over and reaching across the fence for Carlton's hand.

He shakes it instinctively, but his focus is on the empty yard behind this man. "Weren't you just talking to someone?"

Guster pauses. Almost too long.

"Oh, yes, you must have heard my friend. He just left. Uh, through the woods."

"Hm." Carlton narrows his eyes at the trees in question and the lack of a visible path. "Does your friend know how stupid and dangerous that is at a time like this? Roads exist for a reason, you know."

"Well, he..." Guster sighs and smirks, just briefly, as he opens and walks through the gate. "He generally is pretty reckless and stupid, Inspector. But I'll try to convince him to be safer next time. Here, let me show you to your room."

Carlton has no reason to find his host suspicious as he follows him inside, or anytime later, for that matter. He quickly learns that Guster earns his living through both sustainable farming and being a supplier of medicinal herbs to the few local doctors. Past that, he spends daily recreational time visiting the schoolhouse to give Ms. O'Hara and each of her students a treat. Most often an apple.

Guster also often stays simply to talk, by his own admission. Though when he does, he tries to make up for any time wasted by teaching the students some of his own medical or miscellaneous knowledge.

And at home, the man cleans very well and cooks a hearty meal. He's hospitable, diplomatic, even _studious_ despite not attending any formal education as of now, and by all means seems a good and responsible man. _Precisely_ the man that Ms. O'Hara made him out to be.

So what _is_ it that has Carlton so inclined to be vigilant, now?

For the entire evening, he repeatedly finds himself examining every corner of every room. His neck snaps at the slightest of noises, especially those that seem to be from outside. His hand comes to rest on his holster more often than not. He feels uneasy while talking to his host, and worse when he's finally alone.

This guest room, particularly this _real_ bed, is certainly much better than what he had before. And he is certainly grateful. It's just that Carlton is too distracted to sleep for quite some time.

He's too busy, that is, staring out the window at where the orchards end, directly across a field of tall grass. At the dirt road that divides them.

***

A very common sort of murder that Carlton has seen in the past, or at least heard about, is killing a member of office just above one's own in order to assume their position. The immediate replacement is the _first_ suspect that any good detective will have regarding the death of a politician.

With this death being the third of a series, however, the likelihood of that motive is shot down quite a bit. Carlton is preemptively suspicious of the new mayor nevertheless.

And Mayor Karen Vick actually seems both aware _and_ understanding of that, when he talks to her.

"But trust me, Inspector, I was far from being the _next in line_ to be mayor. I don't think I need to elaborate why," she says, vaguely gesturing to herself. "The people left to their own devices certainly would have preferred to vote in the town drunk, and I likely wouldn't have even been willing to take the position _myself_ if not for the Deputy Sheriff campaigning for me. He... sure has a way of getting people to trust him."

"Yeah, _somehow_," Carlton grumbles without thinking. The woman across from him goes tight-lipped, like she agrees but doesn't want to say anything.

"...Yes, well. The man has his flaws, but Deputy Luntz has actually been encouraging me to try running against Swaggerty for some time now—I _assume_ it's only because I've helped out the Sheriff's office politically on a few occasions. And because Swaggerty has gone unopposed for so long. _But_, ah... the short of it, Inspector, is that I assure you I had no intention to take this position by any means in the first place."

Vick says all of this with her hands folded over a desk entirely unfitting for a mayor, too. She's taken a small room on the opposite side of the building from the original Mayor's office, which is to be boarded up until it can be remodeled.

"I just wouldn't feel comfortable sitting in the chair that my predecessor was murdered in, bloodstained or not," is what she tells him when he asks _why_.

Which is the first he's hearing of the fact that, unlike the other two victims, Swaggerty's body was not found outside. At least... not entirely.

Unfortunately behind those boards are nothing of note, as most evidence of the murder has been cleaned by now. But Carlton insists he be shown the inside anyway, just to get a clear mental picture along with the story:

On a typical Wednesday morning, after an uneventful Tuesday night, a clerk by the name of Buzz McNab unlocked his boss's door to find him missing a head. All the while he sat upright, a glass cup still in his lifeless grip. His water pitcher was shattered across a now water-damaged desk, likely dropped moments before decapitation.

And his _head_, somehow, wound up in the bushes outside. It took them forever to actually find it. Carlton can only assume that the killer got in through the open window in the first place and then closed it on their way out.

If the killer wasn't already in the building, anyway.

After speaking with Vick and McNab and others, though, Carlton finds truly no substantial motive. McNab in particular seems like the last man on earth who might possibly commit murder.

"Oh, sure, Swaggerty was a little corrupt," the clerk readily admits, nodding thoughtfully. "Definitely pretty focused on money, and played favorites and made selfish decisions for the whole town and whatnot. But not any more than any other politician you ever hear about, really. Except—I guess Vick will probably be better. I hope. I mean, she's one of the most responsible people I know, so..."

So another dud.

Surely, though, there must be some particular constituent that Swaggerty made very angry—someone who _might_ have even done the first two murders just to distract from the notion of them being motivated purely by the Mayor? But then that would mean Sonora had an absolute psychopath on their hands. Which isn't impossible, but it makes this case instantly look much bleaker.

This was the murder that made Hank officially decide to ask for his help, too, so Carlton refuses to begin losing his head. He'll try every possible angle that he can to find a solid connection between the victims before he considers that the motives were beyond natural.

Funnily enough, as he walks down the front steps of the town hall building, that conscious decision alone actually knocks some things into place. And he realizes—

He _does_ already have a connection.

A very defensive boyfriend of a woman that Drimmer was interested in.

A potential client that Trout refused to work with, particularly due to a _lack_ of crime.

A man who has clearly wanted Swaggerty out of office for over a year.

Then perhaps Carlton is a little biased against him anyway, but he doesn't consider that much of a factor against this theory when he's also _agonizing_ over how to break it to Hank. _Yes, your own deputy may be the sick mastermind behind all this. You hired a murderer. _He hasn't worried so much about breaking Hank's heart since he first left Sonora.

Luckily his own heart has hardened since then, and Carlton knows very well that sometimes this is just part of the job. Sometimes people are going to feel betrayed when truth comes to light. So when he catches sight of Hank down the road outside the schoolhouse, Carlton takes a single, brief deep breath before running toward him.

"Hey! D'you know where Luntz is? I need to talk to him."

He doesn't notice at first because he's busy catching his breath, but when he does, Hank looks about the least composed that Carlton has _ever_ seen him. Pale in the face, deep bags under his eyes, jaw trembling. Like he's ready to vomit.

"What?" Carlton asks too soon—all he needs in order to understand is a glance toward the school, on one end of which Ms. O'Hara is sitting alone with her face in her hands. On the other, Father Wesley is speaking with another old man that Carlton doesn't recognize. _Oh no._

Hank removes his hat and holds it to his chest.

"It happened again, Binky."

*

The eerie sense of familiarity that's been following Carlton lately continues as he approaches the body. This is the first of the murder scenes that he has witnessed with his own eyes, yet he doesn't feel like a stranger to anything about it.

But this time he feels it makes sense. However foreign Sonora is to him now, this is his living. _This_ is his home.

Now, is it horrible that he first thing Carlton feels,_ especially_ after seeing the body, is frustration that he's back to having no suspects? He would think it's just an inevitable side effect of devoting his life to solving homicides. But he can't help a twinge of guilt after the fact.

The third thing that he feels, then, is some excitement at the fact that he _finally_ has the chance to show these people how a murder scene _should_ be handled.

Based on what Hank repeats from Ms. O'Hara's statement, Luntz must have been killed last night while leaving the schoolhouse. Both his body and his head rolled down the hill, just barely saved from falling into the creek that runs through town by the tall grass that surrounds it. They were ultimately spotted by a young student who strayed too far during recess.

Walking up and down the hill, Carlton can see the most likely path that the body took before being caught by grass. He then examines the area around the very top of that path, hoping to find something that the killer might have left behind. A dropped object, some scrap of clothing, some evidence that they themself were injured, footprints... _hoofprints_...?

No. There's nothing. He needs to stop entertaining those thoughts.

However, he should be able to figure out at least what _direction_ the killer came from simply by checking the top of the neck for where the edge looks the cleanest and where it looks more uneven and torn—

_Hm. That's strange._

"Were the other bodies formally examined?" he asks aloud, still hunched over Luntz's torso.

"What for?" says Hank. "We knew the cause of death. Heads got chopped off."

"Not necessarily," Carlton corrects, not because he believes the heads were chopped post-mortem but because he doubts that Hank has the same line of thinking that he does. Then, "In the city, we're more thorough than that."

Because he's irritated enough to kind of want to hurt some feelings.

Several things don't add up, here. The cleanest part of Luntz's decapitated neck is directly in the middle—_perfectly_ so, in fact. That should mean that the killer went at him head-on. Yet there is no sign of struggle anywhere on Luntz's body nor in the grass. The man's gun wasn't even _slightly_ removed from his holster.

"Now, why would a _deputy sheriff_ not manage a fight against someone that he had to have seen coming? What kind of killer could have gotten him from the _front_ so cleanly without alerting him enough for him to grab his gun in time?"

He watches the three men look at each other. The oldest one begins to raise a shaking hand.

"Don't answer that, Father."

The man puts his hand back down. And the other two don't have anything to say. Carlton does have one more question about the body, but he's... afraid to ask, for something close to the same reason that he shut Father Wesley down.

_What could keep a body from attracting flies or any other sort of scavenging insect for so long?_

In keeping _that_ to himself, there's only one thing left to do.

"I'd like to exhume the other bodies for a cross-examination."

*

Hank asks him repeatedly if he's sure that that's necessary, if he doesn't think that's disrespectful—and says that "just because city folk might be fine with it doesn't mean we're gonna do it out here." He backs down when Carlton points out that Hank called him to Sonora in the first place "_because_ of how you do things out here." Still makes a point of not wanting to be involved with that part of the investigation, though.

Father Wesley is entirely opposed. It's blasphemous, it's disturbing the rest of a tortured soul, it's... whatever. It's a good thing that Carlton has no obligation to do what he says, is what it is.

Meanwhile the undertaker—the third man at the scene, called Woodrow Strode, has not only no issue but is practically _enthusiastic_ to do that triple exhumation for him.

"I never have so much work to do in one night," he explains, grinning and clapping his hands together. "It'll be a refreshing change of pace from my usual evenings of trying to guess the eventual cause of death of everyone in town. I don't think I'm right about most of them, anyway."

An unsettling fellow, but Carlton ignores it in favor of the help he's offering.

He doesn't have to spend very much time alone with the man, anyway, before he's greeted by—

"Ms. O'Hara?" He glances to where Strode is sticking levers and ropes underneath the casket in the grave that they just dug up. "...I don't think you should be here."

"I told you to call me Juliet," she says with an unexpected force. "And I overheard what you said, earlier. I also find it _incredibly_ odd that Cameron wasn't even grabbing his gun's handle when he was killed. His reflexes are too quick for that. I just—I _know_ that a very complicated investigation is going on, here, and I want to be a part of it. In fact, if I can offer any help to figure out who did this to Cameron, I _need_ to be."

"That's a nice little speech, Ms... _Juliet_," he corrects himself at the sharp look she throws him. "But I didn't get the title of Inspector just by _wanting_ to be involved in a homicide investigation. It—"

"I didn't ask for a _title_, did I? All I want is to work with you."

"...Well, I'm afraid it takes a certain amount of experience to handle something like this up close."

"And who says I haven't had the experience? I've looked at my own boyfriend's dead body and I'm perfectly composed right now, I'd say."

_That she is._ But now isn't the time to concede anything.

"Looking at _one_ dead body doesn't mean you know what it's like to look at four all at once, let alone smell them, and it certainly doesn't mean that someone who teaches _children_ is going to be helpful in examining—"

"I may teach children, Lassiter, but _I_ was taught by adults when I studied human anatomy in college." The look in her eyes for just a moment, then, is downright scary. Carlton supposes that the dim light helps. "I wasn't taken all that seriously back then either, so I also learned how to be persistent. Just letting you know—I could do this all night."

He holds eye contact with her for several of the following seconds, coming out of it with no doubt that she indeed could. Still, Carlton searches his mind for _some_ other rebuttal for another few seconds until he's distracted by a long grunt from the undertaker.

"And _there's_ the last one. Just got to get 'im inside and then you're good to start cross-examining, Inspector. Oh—are you coming too, Ms. O'Hara? The more the merrier, I always say!"

Strode then begins wheeling off the last coffin, and the woman in question doesn't wait at all for permission before following right behind.

Somehow, Carlton doesn't have the heart to force her out.

*

He doesn't say anything to her at _all_, if only due to his pride, until he sees Luntz's body on the table. She may have calmed down since earlier, but that doesn't mean that she's lost all ability to become overwrought with emotion again.

"Are you sure you can stomach this?"

"Of course I can," she snaps back. "I deal with children on a daily basis. Do you know what kind of disgusting things _they_ get up to?"

_Not the stench of death,_ he thinks, and is also about to _say_ before—

_Wait._ He sniffs the air. It's... not nearly as bad as he anticipated.

Still, "I hope you know there's nothing wrong with it if you at any point want to leave. You're not showing any weakness just because you're being affected by grief—"

"Lassiter, please. My grief is _why_ I'm here. Now can we look at the damn bodies?"

So they do. Strode gives them both gloves so that they can avoid touching the bodies directly, and Carlton opts _not_ to ask why he has them in Juliet's size in favor of simply going ahead and removing the coffin lids.

Shortly after, they can already be certain that the killer's axe _also_ met the first three victims at the very center of the front of the neck. Inhuman precision aside, this means every single one of them were somehow caught so far off guard so as to not do anything to stop it... by a killer who was coming straight at them.

"What if the killer ran up from behind, and only got in front at the last second?" Juliet suggests. She doesn't sound very confident about it, though.

"Then their footsteps would have to have been extremely quiet," he answers. "And that person would still have to be an _unmatched_ expert with an axe."

"Ah, yes, they would... Have you looked into any of the local lumberjacks?"

Admittedly, no, he hasn't. None ever came up as suspects as far as motive went, and even regarding means, it just didn't seem relevant. _Everyone_ owns an axe and nothing before now implied there was great swinging skill involved. He supposes that that's something for tomorrow's itinerary.

Further than that, neither have any observations of note to make about the bodies. Carlton figures that that's all he _needed_, really.

Until the undertaker leans in, puts a hand on either of their shoulders, and says "Huh, that's odd."

"Jesus, Strode, don't startle us like that—"

"Oh, call me Woody."

"I will not." He's had enough informality lately. Strode nods anyway, like he thinks that's fair.

"_What's_ odd?" Juliet asks before he can.

"_Well_," Strode starts, moving around to the head of the coffin they're looking at, "I am almost _positive_ that I reconnected all these heads to their bodies—for the sake of having them in one piece as they reach the other side, of course. But as you can see, the thread is entirely gone. Now, I might write off _one_ as a night where I had one drink too many and just forgot, but the others don't have it either—see? And this thread shouldn't dissolve for at _least_ another year."

"Could bugs have eaten the thread?"

"Not likely, Inspector. I soak it in something specifically so that insects will avoid it. And that's actually another thing—I just _remembered_... I don't embalm my bodies. It's bad for the environment, you know. But _this_ fellow...," he says, gesturing to Drimmer's corpse, "after three weeks underground? He should definitely be more rotted than this."

Carlton and Juliet give each other a wordless, wide-eyed look. Then back to Strode.

"Well...," the former begins nervously,

"What would make him stay like this without embalming?" the latter takes the words right out of his mouth.

The undertaker slowly stands up, looking to be deep in thought for several long moments. Then very abruptly his expression calms, and he simply shrugs.

"Beats me, but eh, I've seen odder in my line of work. Just let me know when I can put 'em back in the ground."

And with that, he pats them both on the shoulder again and retreats to the other side of the room, smiling cheerfully all the while.

When he's out of earshot, Juliet leans close.

"I'm not sure if I like him," she mutters.

"...I'm fairly sure that I _don't_," Carlton mutters back. But he'll be damned if this all wasn't helpful.

***

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Um... back home? To where I live, so I can sleep?"

"Yeah, _no_, I really don't think it's a good idea for you to go off in the dark by yourself."

"I have a lamp!"

"There's a killer out there. Do you think they'll be stopped by light?"

"No, but I also have a gun."

"_You_ have a gun?"

"You think the Deputy Sheriff would court me and not give me some means to defend myself from a killer?" And she briefly pulls it out from the slit in her skirt, to show him.

"Well, that's—you—that doesn't matter _anyway_," he tells her, "because even the Deputy Sheriff couldn't defend himself with a gun. Walls don't necessarily keep you safe, either—look what happened to Swaggerty. The only thing that does keep you safe is _numbers_, so... you should just come with me. If Mr. Guster would house a complete stranger, then there's surely nothing stopping him from housing a good friend."

And he doesn't think she needs to be convinced of the fact that the local parents will largely _not_ be trying to send their children to school tomorrow.

When she remains silent, however,

"...Also, if you're going to be working with me on this, then it only makes sense we should be staying in the same place."

She perks up instantly.

"Alright, Inspector, you've got yourself a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw the first female mayor in the US was in the 1880s, so even though sonora didn't actually have one at this time, there WAS precedent for it.


	4. call me maybe

Regardless of what he told Juliet, Carlton feels that the best thing for him to do after walking her to Guster's house is to forgo sleep for a bit and patrol around town. He doesn't think there's anything _wrong_ with holding different standards for her and himself, of course. Though he does wait until she's about fallen asleep to leave—if only to keep her from following.

He'll be honest with himself, he isn't sure what he expects to find. Especially considering that if the killer doesn't break their pattern, then they won't even be attempting murder for another six to eight nights.

But he does know that _clearly_, this killer is only getting anyone when they're alone, specifically at this time of night. This is the only time he has if he wants to actually _prevent_ another murder alongside solving what's already happened.

And if his lone self in the dark attracts the killer to him, well. That's one way to do it.

Carlton has three guns on his person as he walks, just in case. Shotgun on his back, revolver on his hip, and another revolver already in hand. He's shot them all once in the past couple days, just to make sure that they wouldn't jam again. He keeps his head down—inconvenient for chopping—and his shoulders high and ready to move.

It doesn't exactly stop him from feeling uneasy in this dark town, but it doesn't need to. If he was calm, he wouldn't be as vigilant. He wouldn't feel as confident that no one's getting the better of _him_ tonight.

Past all the trees and other high-growing crops, the feeling lessens anyway. It's not nearly as easy for someone to hide amongst buildings and empty roads. The moonlight hits it all. Or close to it.

It only makes sense, then, that the place that Carlton _does_ spot someone is one of the few hidden in shadow.

Down that hill by the schoolhouse, where it meets the creek and very close to where Luntz's body was found, an oak tree overhangs. It sticks out of the slope rather than the level ground, giving it even more space than otherwise to provide cover for. At least, it might do so for the untrained or distracted eye.

He really might not have noticed if the wind didn't shake the tree so furiously, drawing his attention there and subsequently to the moving shapes underneath it. When he focuses, he can make out the silhouette of a crouched man. His heart picks up again.

Impatient as he is, Carlton takes care to approach slowly and quietly, from the other side of the creek. He doesn't want to be noticed until it's just the right time.

And when it _is_ the right time, he makes a point of loudly cocking his shotgun.

"Drop what you have and turn around slowly."

The man freezes, but doesn't do any more than that.

Carlton cocks it again. "_Do it._"

He then hears a soft thump, watches the man's hands go in the air, and... as the man raises up his body and shifts from being on his knees to his feet... he becomes extremely familiar. Carlton knows him before he even turns around.

"...Can I pick my head up now, Inspector?" the man asks after a good ten seconds of shocked silence—and yet another several follow.

"It's really you," Carlton finally mutters. He even drops his gun slightly so that he can rub his eyes, see if he's hallucinating. Nothing changes. It doesn't even feel surreal, this time.

"Okay, I'm gonna take that as a _yes_," the man says, squatting down with both hands still up, and reaching for what is clearly... his head. It's without a doubt the same one Carlton saw before.

"You're... the Headless Horseman."

"Well, I think right now I'm just a headless _man_—"

"_That's_ why the cuts are so neat and why they couldn't defend themselves and why they're not rotting, because—" Carlton's mind never ever goes to ghosts or any other supernatural theory with things like this, but it's only in this moment that all of it makes _sense_. "Because it _was_ you."

"_Ugh_—" The severed head looks distressed, and the Horseman throws his free hand up. "_No_, I'm not! _Listen_, Inspector—Lassiter, right? Lass—can I call you Lassie?"

"You most certainly cannot."

"Lassie, would a _killer_ come back here?"

"Killers almost always return to the scene of the crime," he spits, fixing his gun forward again.

"Alright, would a killer be _investigating_?"

"How can you possibly prove that's what you were doing?"

The Horseman sighs loudly. "...Would a killer have returned your suitcase to you?"

"My suitcase?" That gives Carlton some pause, but only for a moment. This creature obviously has eyes on the town—there's no reason he couldn't know about his first night here, or that he couldn't at least _guess_ that Carlton never actually asked Hank about the suitcase. "...No, you're lying. Nice try, though."

"Okay, FINE," the Horseman groans, like he's actually _reluctant_ to say, "Do you really think a vicious killer would have scooped you up like a baby fawn and put you back in your bed, Lassie?"

"You didn't do that, that—" _...was a dream?_ But it wasn't. Was it? _Could_ it have been, if the Horseman remembers it too? Can a Dullahan manipulate dreams? Can any other ghost, if that's not what the Horseman is? And if it can, why _him_?

And if it _can't_... why help him?

The man across from him looks both smug and relieved. Carlton can't think of a thing to say that wouldn't concede his whole position except, perhaps,

"A 'baby fawn' is redundant. Fawns are already baby deer by definition."

"Eh, I've heard it both ways," he shrugs. "Also, I gotta tell you, it was _not_ easy to put you to bed. I mean, easy enough to pick you up, and doors just open on command for me, but there's so much _stuff_ in that place it's like going through a maze, trying not to bump into anything. I'd go incorporeal, of course, but then I'd have dropped you, so... y'know. The Sheriff really needs to clean up a bit."

What threw Carlton off the first time about the casual way the Horseman talks, he now registers as a purposeful distraction tactic. And he will _not_ let his guard down again.

The Horseman starts forward, having only time to say, "But all that's water under the bridge now—"

And Carlton shoots him.

The gunshot echoes far enough that even birds in the distance fly away. He watches shrapnel hit the water, the hill, the oak tree. Seemingly everything _but_ the Horseman, who just... holds his arms out.

"Man, _seriously_?"

Then he hears a shout in the distance. Carlton turns around to see a man running toward him. It takes a second to make out who he is.

"BINKY, S'THAT YOU?" he shouts again, clearer now. "What happened?"

"Hank! You won't—"

He twists back around to find the creekbank empty. And twists again, as much as he can until he's exhausted all possible directions that the Horseman could have gone in. There's no sign of him.

"_Hank_, there was..."

"What happened, Binky?" he repeats, grabbing his shoulders. "Did they get away?"

"The... um." Carlton swallows, still obsessively glancing around. He can't possibly explain. "Sorry, I... I thought I saw something, but I was wrong. It was a false alarm."

"Oh... Well, no hard feelings. It happens to the best of us—even me, especially _lately_..." Hank sighs and pats Carlton on the back. Then he frowns. "You're breathin' awful hard, Binky. Why don't you come with me for a nightcap and then go back to that Guster fella's to rest, huh?"

The part of him that always wants to insist that he's fine and refuse any help feels very small, right now. He thinks he could really use that nightcap.

***

Carlton would likely still be trying to convince himself that all that was a dream if he didn't hear townsfolk talking about hearing a gunshot last night, and subsequently Hank telling them that he just thought he saw a coyote—the precise lie that he _recalls_ them discussing. Maybe even then, but immediately upon waking up he found that his shotgun is missing a shell, too.

And if that was a hallucination, then it was a pretty damn solid one. But maybe he's just caught whatever insanity that the rest of Sonora has gotten while he was away. The small town brain rot. Or there's something in the drinking water. Or gold fever? No, that's not a thing. And he hasn't even gone near the mines.

Maybe he should, though. Gold is supposed to fend off a Dullahan, isn't it? He remembers being told that, as a child. If he could just get everyone in town to keep some on their person, then everyone will be safe, and—

No, _no_, they won't. Because that's _insane_. He's going insane.

Maybe he shouldn't have ever come back here.

Then he remembers the only other options he'd had.

Now Carlton doesn't know whether he'd prefer to be losing his mind or to know that everything he's seen has been real. He feels awful regardless. He feels no confidence in any other lead whatsoever—at the very best, he doesn't think his perception can be trusted. At the worst... well. He has no choice but to go along with it anyway.

Juliet does a fair share of the questioning when they go to talk to the lumber company, not because he _chooses_ to take a backseat but because apparently, Deputy Luntz did already interrogate them before. So they're not too happy to go through that again unless it's a "pretty face" that's doing so.

Carlton himself _did_ also come here a few days ago, though only to talk to the higher-ups and not the lumberjacks themselves. It was one of the many places that Drimmer tried to invest in and was essentially told to take a number.

Now, it doesn't sound like Drimmer talked to any of the actual lumberjacks, either. Neither did Trout nor Swaggerty in any capacity. It's easy to imagine that they both saw themselves as too high above the likes of the lower working class. _That_ in and of itself might actually be a plausible motive—at least to Juliet—but if any of these men had ever _attempted _to interact with Trout or Swaggerty before, that information should have already been available.

Their morning is spent inspecting axes, particularly discarded ones alongside other trash. It feels hopeless and heavy, and every axe head that Carlton passes without finding any evidence that it ever went through a human's neck seems to add another weight to him. He feels no inclination to double-check the ones that pass Juliet's inspection. He knows it won't make a difference.

"Well, that went nowhere," Juliet huffs once they finally head back into town.

Carlton only hums in response.

"I did have one idea, though."

Turning his head feels like pulling a rusty lever. "What's that?"

"...Well, what if the killer was in fact such a friendly face that none of the victims had any _reason_ to expect they were about to be killed? Someone that they all knew and trusted entirely—so much so that that person even _holding_ _an axe_ didn't make the victims fear for their safety until it was too late. And that's why none of them fought back."

Something does click in him, hearing that theory, but it feels very distant. In any other situation he's sure that he'd hop right on it, as the most plausible-sounding explanation for the discrepancies in these murders.

But he just... he _cannot_ reconcile it with what he saw last night.

Carlton figures that he's at least pretending believably enough to be invested in that lead and this mystery in general, for Juliet's sake. Or he does until, after they've finished their afternoon snack back at Guster's house, she claps her hands together and directly asks him,

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Am I—what? Of course I am," he snaps. Juliet's expression makes it clear he was _not_ convincing just then. "...Why do you ask?"

"Um... _well_," she draws out with a wry smile, "you've been quite obviously tense all day. Especially after any talk of our leads. I'd thought that maybe you were just starving, but then you took a lot longer than I even did to eat, so..."

"So what are you saying?"

That's a stupid question. It doesn't even make _sense_ to be defensive like that. He could just lie. He could say that he got hungry enough that the idea of eating quickly made him sick, and that he'll be fine soon. That happens all the time! Or he could say he didn't get enough rest. He could tell her a half-truth and say that he'd had nightmare about this case that was still distressing him. It's not even too late—he could backtrack, admit he was being stupid, and say any one of those right now.

"I'm saying... that you're acting odd and I'm worried?"

But _god_, if only because of her genuine sympathy, he _cannot_ bear to keep it to himself any longer.

"Fine—_fine_, I admit it, alright?" Carlton just about shouts, taking in a sharp breath and briefly putting his face in his hands. He vaguely registers Juliet jumping back just slightly. "I... I know _rationally_ that I need to examine every possible angle that is within my limits to do so. And believe me, O'Hara, I define my _life_ by the rational. But all of this now just _feels_—completely against my will, I promise you I can't help it... like a waste of time. Every second of it feels like a waste and just... _wrong_, because—"

Because of something that he can't bear to say aloud.

"...Because of what?" Juliet prompts, frowning, after what feels like a minute of ringing in his ears.

"Because I..." _Have to get over it._ "...think I might already know who the killer is. But you won't believe me if I tell you, and honestly, I would be a little disappointed with you if you did."

She's silent for a few beats, her face indiscernible. Then,

"You know that you can't just say a thing like that and expect me _not_ to push it until you just tell me the rest."

At that, Carlton wants to laugh. He really should have expected that.

*

Now he feels like a doll with how uncomfortably straight he's sitting, and how little he's breathing. Every moment of silence that passes stretches into infinity until he finally breaks it:

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Of course not," Juliet says with ease.

His shoulders drop. "Well, that makes two of us—"

"Because the Horseman would never _do_ a thing like that."

Her face is more alight with emotion as she says that than it's been all day. For a moment Carlton is too confused to do more than furrow his brow and tilt his head, and he only manages to move his mouth into the shape of a _W_ before she stands up and continues—

"After everything the Horseman has done for the town in the past, it doesn't make any sense that he would do something like _this_ out of nowhere. I know some think that he's an agent of death or something like that, but... No, he's the good sort of spirit. I _know_ he must be."

It's not that he hasn't heard this rhetoric already, but that he never expected it from _her_. She hasn't said a peep about anything supernatural before now. She certainly never made any indication that she felt strongly enough to pace around and wildly gesture like she is now.

Carlton actually feels somewhat small in remaining seated, here. But he feels no desire to stand.

"Hasn't he... killed people in the past?"

"Yes, and do you know what those people _did_, Lassiter?" She stops pacing and steps closer. "They would have been executed had their crimes been discovered while they were still alive, and there isn't a single soul in Sonora who wouldn't have celebrated. Hell, probably the worst one of them _all_... Karl Rotmensen—have you heard of him?"

Hank definitely mentioned him in a letter, years ago. It takes a second to hit him.

"...The schoolmaster who—?"

"Who killed at least three women in the city where he used to live, another here, and who abused his own daughter so severely she had to be admitted to an asylum. He was one of the most recent that the Horseman ran off a cliff to his death—which is how he's _always_ done it, _never_ any other way, and... That is how I got this job. I owe my _job_ to him, Lassiter! Which isn't to say that that's more important than those poor women getting justice, but the _point_ is... I refuse to believe that he's causing this. I just refuse."

With a final, short breath, she grabs her teacup and walks into Guster's kitchenette to refill it. Carlton still remains in his chair.

"You sound like you know him personally," he says. Neglecting to mention, of course, that he himself spoke to the Horseman. He only told her that he'd seen him.

"How could I? No one does," she tells him as she sits back down, like that should be obvious. "No one's ever even managed to describe his _clothes_. I just feel confident that a good spirit doesn't turn evil out of nowhere... You're not getting suspicious of _me_, now, are you?"

For the most part, Carlton doesn't know _what_ he feels—what he _should_ feel nor even what he _wants_ to feel, either. The inclination to believe that he's just crazy is still there. He certainly doesn't suddenly believe in the Horseman's supposed innocence, real or not, all the while.

If there's one thing he feels very sure of without even a moment of thought, however,

"Of _course_ not."

***

It feels stupid that it takes Carlton so many hours—technically, so many _days_—to just man up and go ask Hank to his face.

Carlton's stomach sinks into an even deeper pit when Hank only expresses confusion:

"No, I got up that morning and went straight to church like always. I didn't even realize you had a bag out there in the woods. Why—what's the matter, Binky?"

He then has to come up with yet another excuse that Hank likely doesn't even buy. He feels like he's been having to do that constantly for the past day or so, but how could he possibly explain? He can't even rationalize it to _himself_.

If only due to that, part of him hopes desperately for more contact with the Horseman. Even if he _is_ just a hallucination—hell, even if he's truly the Dullahan of legend and has the unmatched power to decide Carlton's death. It's the only path he can see in which he actually gets some answers.

The path he takes in particular, in this compulsion, is the darker shortcut to his place of lodging. The dirt road that marks the end of the orchards and the beginning of Guster's property. The road to which he's almost _certain_ he was led on his second night in Sonora, assuming now that that was indeed real.

Despite all that, he really didn't expect it to happen so _soon_.

He thinks he is especially justified in being as startled as he is considering that he just abruptly hears, in that familiar voice,

"So, _Binky_, huh?"

Carlton jumps back, nearly tripping over himself and into the grass. Still, he manages to reach his holster.

On the opposite side of the road, the Horseman dismounts, gives his spectral steed a pat, and laughs.

"You remember that does _nothing_, right?"  
"Maybe shotgun shells didn't, but what about gold bullets?" He's bluffing, but he needs to know.

"Gold? What's gold got to do with anything?"

There isn't even a split second of fear on his face. _God dammit._ Carlton doesn't lower his aim, though. It's the principle of the thing.

"...Nevermind. What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

He tightens his lips. "I asked you first."

"Okay, fair enough..." With that, the Horseman sighs and paces around for a moment, kicking up dirt. If Carlton didn't know better, he'd say the man was _nervous_. He sighs a second time when he finally faces him again: "...The short of it is, Gus told me that I need to man up and just talk to you face to face—for lack of a better term, so. Here I am. I'd have shown up somewhere less creepy, but you... actually seemed like you were _looking_ for me just now, so—"

"_Wait_—" It takes him a moment to understand that he heard that correctly. He frowns deeply and glances at the farmhouse in the distance multiple times. "_Gus_ told you? As in, Bu—"

"Burton J. Guster, mainly known as Gus, known by a select few as _Big Head Burton_—yes," the Horseman confirms. "If he tries to get you to call him _Fearless_ Gus, though, don't do it. I really don't think he's earned that yet."

Carlton snaps his gaze between the man in front of him and the house he's been staying in probably twenty more times in the next few seconds. He neglects to breathe in that time, too.

"You're gonna get dizzy if you keep doing that."

"I'm sorry, I'm just—" Quite dizzy already, but not from his head going back and forth. "I'm just trying to figure out how a man like _that_ made friends with something like _you_."

Furthermore, how that man could be such a gracious host all the while that he was keeping such a dark secret. And why Carlton himself doesn't actually feel all that betrayed. Though maybe his hospitality has just made up for it.

"Okay, _first _of all," the Horseman says, gesturing his own head outwards, "you don't need to insult Gus like that. Second of all, he and I go _way_ back. We were practically changing each other's diapers—I mean, we weren't _changing_ them, we—you know. Grew up together. Played all the games—jumped rope, ball and stick, cowboys... Oh, but _not_ Indians, because that's offensive. Ah, man—the grave he made me dig for myself is still in his backyard, I think... _Anyway_, Lassie. What I'm saying is, we might seem pretty different, him particularly being far more boring, but I've known Gus as long as I can remember. Which is saying a lot because I have a _very_ good memory."

If it weren't for the missing head, Carlton might have forgotten that he wasn't listening to an entirely normal human being, just now.

The Horseman is... really just a ghost, isn't he? A recently deceased one, at that.

_That doesn't mean he's innocent,_ Carlton reminds himself.

"So... you died about eight years ago, right?" he finally says.

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"And your grave is in... Guster's backyard—?"

"Oh, no, that's a _fake_ grave," the Horseman laughs. "Made it when we were kids."

"So where's your real grave?"

"Uh... not in Sonora."

"Well, how'd you die?"

"That's kind of a personal question, don'tcha think?" In retrospect it is, but he doesn't seem genuinely annoyed. "But... even if it wasn't, I, uh... don't actually remember."

While the Horseman looks thoughtful, in what little light he's still visible, Carlton raises an eyebrow and stares.

"You said that you had a very good memory."

"And I do!" He then raises his arms defensively and drops his head on the ground, and fumbles to pick it back up. This seems like a recurring issue. "Okay, listen, I swear it's the _only_ thing I don't remember. And I've tried to figure it out, believe me! One thing I do know—it _couldn't_ have been anywhere around here because I left Sonora as soon as I turned 18 and didn't come back until... well, until after I died.

"And I'm fairly sure that I'm not a Civil War soldier or angry Indian or Mexican spirit considering that Gus and I both have memories of me growing up here and being white. And being born in 1870. I _wouldn't_ write off the possibility that I'm a horse thief who got hanged so hard my head came off, though, I always thought that was a cool theory... Oh!—there's also the one where _I_ was one of the victims of the first murderer to get ran off a cliff by me. I like that one too, even if I'm not sure it's actually possible..."

The notion of forgetting the circumstances of one's own death is morbidly and tragically fascinating and all, but once the Horseman takes a breath, Carlton _has_ to backtrack,

"Hold on. Now, I'm no... _ghost expert_,"—which he can't believe he's even saying—"but if you didn't die here, why are you spending your afterlife here?"

The Horseman shrugs and averts his gaze. Which is very easy when his head is under his arm.

"Think I'm just making up for all the time I spent away. Plus, the idea of Gus going the rest of his life without having any idea what happened to me... well. _Anyway, _it feels very weird to say this, Inspector, but—"

He takes a deep breath and a step forward, practically right into where Carlton's gun is still aimed outward.

"...I'm not here to talk about _me_."

*

It definitely explains why the Horseman was at the scene of Luntz's murder last night. It explains the entirely different method of murder. It adds up with the local stories of Horseman sightings, with the ghosts's own recounting of Guster's life, with the behavior Carlton has actually observed in the past few days.

It also raises _more_ questions and contradicts on all fronts with nearly everything Carlton has ever been taught... but at this point he is simply tired of holding his gun at the ready. Both literally and figuratively. He just wants to sit down.

When he impulsively does just that, he still feels relieved that the Horseman doesn't take advantage but instead does just the same.

And then somewhat uneasy again, when the Horseman crosses his legs and holds his head in his lap.

"I promise you, this is literally the first thing in _forever_ that I haven't been able to figure out myself," he tells Carlton. "Before you showed up this was just _my_ job. Four people have died on my watch, and how do you think that makes ME feel, Lassie?"

"Oh, I think I can guess," he snaps, albeit under his breath.

There's a moment of tense silence between them. The night becomes twice as loud. Then the Horseman clears his nonexistent throat.

"No matter how hard I look—and I've been trying harder than I _ever_ have... I can't find that kind of evil in the heart of anyone in or around Sonora. I haven't managed to actually witness any of the murders myself, either. It's like they just keep happening in my blind spot. I don't know if I'm just going about this particular one all wrong or _what_, but... Look, I'm admitting it, alright?"

Another beat of silence, but smoother now. Carlton leans back slowly.

"Admitting what?"

The Horseman rolls his eyes. "That I can't do this alone. You can't either. So obviously, we need to work together."

And he sticks out his dead, yet somehow not at all rotten hand. Carlton stares at it—and glances to the empty space above the Horseman's neck, and to the head in his lap, and back to the hand again.

"Come on, what have you got to lose?" he continues.

"_My head_," Carlton says with a knot in his throat.

"Well, then at least you'll have someone to show you the ropes, which is frankly better than what I had."

That's not exactly a comforting fact, but at this point, Carlton figures he'll carry that risk regardless of what he does.

"Sonora is already so far gone, I might as well," he finally concedes.

And he takes the Horseman's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the few easily findable pieces of dullahan lore that exists on the internet is that their one weakness is gold, which is very convenient for the setting - a historical literal gold mine. or it would be, if i found it convenient to work that into the story. so for my own dullahan lore i'll just consider the gold thing to be something a dullahan has to KNOW about for it to have power over them. since shawn is a modern ghost, it makes sense he wouldn't have any clue.


	5. dead alive

Juliet continues staying with Guster, presumably sleeping in his bed while he stays on his own couch, but resumes teaching as usual after a handful of parents approach her in the street to ask how soon she'll reopen the schoolhouse. It would be a disservice to all their children, she tells Carlton, for her to keep it closed.

He can't say he disagrees. No one has been killed during the daytime so far, nor anyone even younger than 30.

And the less she's around him, frankly, the easier it is for him to function in his newfound partnership with... _Shawn_.

Rather than chewing Guster out, or even having any kind of long talk with the man over his necessary deception, Carlton ultimately finds it more productive to let that knowledge come about naturally. And to subsequently let the man stew in his own awkwardness while his ghost friend just casually lets himself inside in front of the both of them.

He must admit, he feels vindicated enough from that.

But then he must deal with the turmoil of realizing how _little_ time it has actually taken him to turn from staunch disbelief in his very existence to... allying himself with this thing. This _man_.

It still baffles him that Guster in particular could appear to be so normal all the while that he secretly, regularly interacts with a dead childhood friend. That he's in fact done it for years.

"After a while, you just get used to it," is as far as he explains for the most part. "It's not like he smells like death. If he _did_, well, it would be a whole different story."

"What, you would've just told me to fuck off if I'd stunk when I first got here?" Shawn immediately asks.

"I would have bore it for one month, _tops_, before politely asking you to move on to the next life."

"_What?_ Just use a clothespin!"

"You _know_ my nose is too sensitive for that to work, Shawn."

And they just keep going like that, every single time, until something or someone interrupts them.

That's another thing Carlton learns about Guster in particular—he is _entirely_ a different person when Shawn is there. He can only assume that his is his host's true self, as he hardly goes back to the way that he was after it's established that Carlton is in the know. Also because when those two are talking, they give him no _room_ to do anything but think and therefore assume things.

He'd almost prefer to still be in the dark than to be a third wheel to their conversations, really. It's a good thing that he can simply leave whenever he likes. There _is_ a lead to follow, after all.

That is, Juliet's theory about the killer being a friendly face is looking plausible in a way that he can now accept. So Carlton hurries to finish his egg-and-toast breakfast, thanks Guster for the meal, and informs the ghost in the room that he's off to interrogate Sonora's _least_ suspect residents.

*

One thing he learns about Shawn is that he can be just about anywhere that he pleases, within certain limits, all while not being sensed by the living whatsoever. It's how he manages to investigate things like this. He's more likely to be solid or at least visible at night, but sunlight doesn't _stop_ him one bit.

And Carlton learns this through having the life practically startled out of him, yet _again_ by Shawn's voice suddenly appearing in his ear. Except this time it's worse, because he's in public.

It is the same subject that he started off on last night, though—making fun of Carlton's interactions with Hank.

"You're not seriously suspecting the _Sheriff_, are you, Binky? Imagine how heartbroken he'd be if he realized."

"First of all, I would _sincerely_ prefer that you call me what you were calling me before," he growls under his breath once he's far enough away from any other people.

"You mean _Lassie_?"

"...Yes, that. Second of all, I'm not suspecting him because I _want_ to. I'm just covering every possible base."

"Well, it's _not_ possible," the disembodied voice insists. "Do you really think he'd have asked you to come here to solve his own murder plot?"

"No, of course I don't," he hisses, "but apparently _the Headless Horseman_ is real, so I really have no choice but to open my mind now, don't I?"

After that, he feels sure that he's drawn some attention to himself. Time to get walking.

Now, Carlton _does_ deeply appreciate Shawn's trust and defense of Hank—particularly, _apparently_, his jamming of Carlton's own gun on that first night to keep Hank from getting shot. But it doesn't stop with Hank, and as he goes through his new list of suspects, Shawn's interruptions become much more of a nuisance than otherwise.

He seems to want to insist that every single "innocent" citizen can't possibly be the culprit, on the sole basis that they're too sweet or too generous or too naive or too morally upstanding or "that was my first girlfriend, she wouldn't do that" or "that's _McNab_." And he won't take "that's literally _why_ they're suspects" for an answer.

"You're not the one seeing into their _souls_, Lassie," he says. "I assure you, I can see nuance that you can't."

"Has it occurred to you that, _maybe_, this is one case where what the soul looks like doesn't _matter_?"

And it's a continuous cycle of that. The only suspects that Shawn takes no issue with are children, as he explains that "they're unpredictable anyway. Everything is muddy before they hit the teenage years."

Unfortunately, the only real way for him to investigate a child is through their parents, and all of them do _very much_ have an issue, no matter how covert Carlton tries to be.

"Careful," Shawn warns, far too late, "if seeing you talk to yourself doesn't make the town think you're crazy, I think the gossip between these mothers might."

Oh, if only he was corporeal enough for Carlton to smack him, right now.

*

Another thing he learns about Shawn is that, for someone who proposed this alliance in the first place, he sure finds a lot of enjoyment in watching Carlton struggle.

When he points that out, he's assured that "it's only when you go ahead with an idea I didn't sign off on."

"Which is almost all of them."

"Your point?"

"You think I don't _also_ hear you laughing every time I accidentally make another person think I'm talking to thin air?"

"Oh, come on, you _know_ that's funny."

It really isn't. At this rate Carlton's reputation in Sonora will be in the shitter by tomorrow—and _then_ what good could he possibly do, here? But he doesn't say that out loud. He wants to be in a habit of not acknowledging Shawn at all, at least as long as he's pursuing the angle that just occurred to him:

After his lack of success with any parents, he's realized that he should just be at the schoolhouse instead.

"Oh, _please_ don't tell me you're considering Jules a suspect. Wasn't she the one who gave you this idea?"

Okay, he has to respond just one more time.

"I'm here for the _kids_, you idiot."

Shawn is actually quiet, after that.

...Until he asks to borrow 'Ms. O'Hara' from her class and informs her of this subset of their theory, only to be informed right back that she's already considered that _and_ has in fact begun making a chart of all of her students with potential motive, means, and alibis. She asks if he'd like her to make him a copy of what she has so far, so he can go investigate their homes individually, and Shawn immediately laughs so close to his ear that he can't help but jump.

"You alright, Carlton?" Juliet asks, somehow not having heard that at all.

"Um—yes, I just had a chill," he lies. "And no, that won't be necessary. Just... show me later."

Embarrassment aside, as he walks swiftly and aimlessly away from the schoolhouse, he thinks that he should try that sort of chart with his own suspects.

*

The most surprising thing of all that Carlton learns about Shawn is that the horse is a whole separate ghost.

"What did you _think_ she was? Just some power that I had?" Shawn laughs. "Because I promise you, if I had the ability to manifest an animal companion or steed or something like that, it would be one that actually set me apart from other ghosts. Like a mountain lion. Or a rabbit, but huge. _No offense_, of course, Blueberry."

He just had to wrangle her from the orchards, having apparently left her to wander around Sonora while he followed Carlton all day. She snorts at him like she somehow understood.

This is the first time that Carlton has actually seen the ghost horse behave like a real one. As well as the first time that he's witnessed Shawn treating her like a _pet_ for more than a split second—rubbing her snout, running his fingers through her mane, talking to her like he might a baby...

It occurs to him that Blueberry must have once been a living horse, and he has to consciously refrain from asking how she died. He has no issue seeing how _that_ would be an insensitive question.

Instead, he simply lifts up his hand and asks,

"May I?"

For a moment Shawn just stares, but then he smirks in understanding. "Go ahead. I'm sure she'd love to get some action other than me and Gus... You want some ghost carrots to feed her?"

Carlton pauses in his first tentative stroke. "Is that a real thing? Can I?"

Then Shawn breaks and grins. "Nah, unfortunately not. It's probably the _worst_ thing about being dead, really—that we can't eat anything. Especially not me. But I think it wears more on her. Horses spend most of their lives eating, you know."

"I did know that, actually."

He wants to elaborate that he knows practically everything there _is_ to know about horses, but then he gets distracted in petting this ghost horse. She feels and looks remarkably like a living one other than her eyes, and even those just seem normal after a minute. She gets antsy after another few, shifting just like a living horse might, at which Carlton instinctively steps back.

"She's not going to kick me again, is she?"

"Huh? Oh—no, she only did that because I told her to," Shawn tells him. "Which, now that I think about it, actually _does_ make her kind of a power of mine. She's... like an extra limb, at least whenever I want her to be. But most importantly, she's her _own_ horse."

He gives a stern look and finger to Carlton, who can't help but be amused.

"...Sorry about that kick to the face, by the way," he adds a moment later, stretching his lips into a grimace. "I mean, you _did_ kinda ask for it. And she didn't hurt you nearly as much as any living horse would. But—I dunno, maybe it's just me, but your head still looks a little swollen."

Carlton freezes, then, as Shawn reaches out with his free hand to brush his forehead. There _was_ a spot that still hurt when he touched it. It doesn't hurt anymore. And it still feels like Shawn is touching it even after he's pulled away.

"You should get Gus to give you something for that," Shawn says, suddenly sounding like he's behind a wall.

"Um." Carlton feels more inclined than before to look at both where the other man's face should be, and where it is. "Okay."

Shawn seems to notice his eyes flitting back and forth, as he takes a step toward the bag at Blueberry's side and says,

"Would it... make you more comfortable if I put the pineapple back on? Or, if the tropical theme doesn't do it for you, I guess I could settle for a pumpkin, or some other gourd... I don't have any on hand, though, so you'll have to be the one to carve it up. I _would_ do it myself but I just... _really_ hate putting my hands in those guts, man."

The topic change feels like whiplash, but it puts Carlton's heart rate back to normal, so he's grateful for it. Then something occurs to him.

"You can't just... put your head back on your neck?"

"_HA!_ That's... oh, you were serious? In that case, yeah, _trust me_, I've tried _everything_ to put my head back on. First I got a scarf to tie around my neck, which failed... just about immediately. I got Gus to try _stitching_ it back on, but the threads kept coming out no matter what it was made of—not even metal wire. It's like a curse."

"You sound oddly casual about that."

"Well, you get used to it. Who _isn't_ cursed these days? Oh, one _loophole_, though—as long as I don't need to use my arms, nothing is stopping me from just holding it like this." He then holds his head directly above his neck, both arms up to hold it steady by the temples. "...Is this good, or is it lopsided?"

It might be lopsided, but Carlton wouldn't be able to tell. He's very suddenly too distracted, by... seeing the man in front of him, for the first time, as he must have looked while alive. Despite having become familiar with the parts, he wasn't prepared for what Shawn looked like once together.

Something stirs in him.

Then he mentally shakes himself out of it.

"It's fine," he snaps, somewhat rudely. But it's unintentional. "It's your own head, just hold it however you want."

Carlton bids Shawn goodnight soon after that, citing his empty stomach and the dinner that Guster has likely prepared. They can both hear his stomach growling, so it's clearly not a lie.

Though he hardly _feels_ hungry as he walks away, holding his forehead.

He can only feel shock and as though he just now learned _truly_ the most surprising thing of all about the Headless Horseman. The man underneath the legend... actually seems to like him.

***

This case seems to move slower each passing day. More and more of Carlton's time, in the next two, is spent sitting around and merely brainstorming for new leads. Or examining and re-examining the charts they've drawn up. Because there's nothing else _to_ do.

He has half a mind to say that they might as well just hope to catch the killer in the act when the next murder happens, but the other half tells him that neither Hank nor Juliet nor the unit that is Shawn and Gus would recieve that very well. Carlton _himself_ wouldn't, really, if anyone else said it. It's just that, at this point, it feels like he's lost sight of everything a murder investigation is supposed to be.

Granted, the only murder investigations he's done before now have all been in the city. In the city where he _lived_ and actually _knew_ how the people worked, at that.

But that's what Shawn's and Juliet's help is for, isn't it?

Conversely, Carlton does notice eventually that Guster himself doesn't contribute very much other than providing the food, occasionally backing up something that Shawn said, and pretending to not be involved when Juliet is around. He doesn't point that out, but it makes him wonder if there's any deeper reason for it. If Shawn's friend is perhaps hiding something. If, just _maybe_, the reason that even the famed Headless Horseman himself has found no clues is because they lie in the one place that the Horseman would never think to look.

Those suspicions last only briefly, of course. Carlton knows that he's just getting desperate. That _and_, as though specifically to prove him wrong, Guster is the one to propose an idea that finally gives them a new angle:

"What if Juliet is right about the killer being someone no one would ever suspect, _but_ when that person is doing the killing, they're not actually themself? What if they're being periodically possessed by an evil spirit, or... or if they suffer from a split mind?—Like that one doctor in town who was killed a few years back, by the patient who had three personalities, remember?"

The thing is, he says that when Carlton is with _Juliet_ instead of Shawn.

"Wow, Gus," she says after a long pause, looking between the two men in shock. "That actually... makes the most sense yet. I didn't know you were paying attention to the case. I didn't even know you believed in possessions or evil spirits."

"...Well, it's not something that comes up often in formal conversations," he says sheepishly. Or flirtatiously? Carlton can't tell.

All he _can_ tell is that, as those two continue talking about Guster's theory, _he_ is slowly pushed into becoming a mere third wheel. Not necessarily because they don't allow him to get a word in edgewise, though. Rather, he's impressed enough to be rendered temporarily speechless.

Then after the fact, he _does_ have to ask,

"With all that you clearly had on your mind, why did you never join the conversation before now?"

The other man tightens his lips and rubs the back of his neck.

"Quite frankly, Lassiter, before now I didn't think you'd really want to _hear_ what I had to say."

*

If anyone in town might know about someone who displayed the symptoms of a split mind, it would be the local doctors. As for the symptoms of a possession... Carlton doesn't know if he believes that's likely, nevermind the ghost he's been talking to for days, but Juliet and Guster are questioning Father Wesley while he does the slightly more enjoyable work.

That being said, it doesn't amount to much other than Carlton learning, from the head of Tuolumne General, that there is no formal diagnosis to begin with. Only theories and signs that he might look out for.

After exhausting that idea, he supposes that he should go join the others. Or, he _could_, but do they really need help with Father Wesley? Juliet and Guster can certainly get along with him better than he ever will. He doubts his presence even _would_ help.

In fact, Carlton thinks that this is the perfect opportunity for him to wind down with a drink or two at the saloon. He can check in on Hank at the same time, as he can always expect to see the man at the bar at this time of night.

On this particular night, however, it seems that the Sheriff isn't there alone. He sees that just through the window, and then he walks in and gets a better look at the other man—at which he almost immediately understands. It's very easy to overhear their conversation, too.

"You're far from being too old, Henry—you're only a couple years older than Cameron is. Or, was. And I know for a _fact _you're more than capable."

Hank did mention to Carlton, recently, that he didn't want to go very long without any deputy. That, God forbid, if something happened to _him_ anytime soon then he would want someone he trusts to replace him. (And that he'd choose "Binky" himself if he didn't have to get back to Santa Barbara after all this. Part of Carlton wanted to tell him _not necessarily_, but he frankly doesn't know where that part even came from.)

"I've told you a thousand times, I'm done with that job," Henry says lowly—almost so low that Carlton can't hear from down the bar. "I quit for a _reason_, you know. If I'm gonna be alone anyway, then I'm gonna enjoy my solitude. It's just not in me to... protect a whole _town_, anymore."

Hank sighs loudly. The man never really did know how to be subtle.

But maybe that's because almost no one in Sonora ever thinks to pay attention.

"You know I'm real sorry about Maddie and Shawn, Henry—I know what it's like to have people leave you for... bigger 'n better things. But don'tcha think that if they ever came back, that they'd hate to see you living like this?"

It sure is a good thing that neither of those men are facing him whatsoever, or else they'd surely see Carlton nearly falling off of his stool. He catches himself before he makes any noise, of course.

Then, he... doesn't even need to wonder whether he heard that right, or if it's a coincidence. All at once the facts add up so perfectly that he _knows_ it's not.

"_Listen, Hank, I appreciate the free drink, but—_" is all that Carlton stays long enough to hear further before knocking back an entire glass of whiskey, slapping down a dime, and starting right back out the door into the darkened streets.

It's not that he feels wrong continuing to listen in, or even that that conversation sounded like it was about to get more emotional and awkward (though it absolutely did). No, Carlton just knows that he doesn't _have_ to eavesdrop any longer to know anything more that he wants to. He knows that he can just ask.

He also has a feeling, right at the nape of his neck, that he wasn't the only one listening in just then.

"I take it your father has no idea that you're dead, let alone that you're the Horseman," Carlton says aloud before he even walks beyond the inner town's limits.

For all he knows, for a second, he spoke only to the evening wind. At best, to the crickets in the nearby bushes. Then he hears from his far right,

"No, Gus is the only person in Sonora who's even seen me up close." And there he is, by the oak tree across the creek again. He leans against the trunk so as to casually hold his head above his neck. "And I'd really like to keep it that way. If nothing else, it's just... too late by this point."

Carlton quickly glances around to make sure no one is watching, then finds the nearest natural bridge to cross the creek on. He isn't worried about anyone seeing Shawn so much as anyone witnessing him balance on top of a log like a child.

"_It's too late_?" he repeats, in a sort of loud whisper, once he's across. He gets within a foot of the other man. "For what, to give him any closure? He thinks you ran away forever."

Shawn's expression turns into the first scowl that Carlton has ever seen from him.

"Yeah, well, I kind of did."

"...But you're back."

"_Am_ I, though?" Shawn screws up his face worse and scoffs. "Honestly, Lassie, I doubt he'd even be happy to see me. He'd probably just get on my ass for dying and not having the chops to move on properly."

Carlton can't help but let out a short laugh, at that. Shawn's eyes pierce through him.

"Sounds like my mother."

"...What about your father?"

"Hardly ever knew him." He doesn't know why he admits that so quickly, but it feels comfortable to say. Maybe it just feels fair, considering what he just learned. "I've probably interacted with yours more than I ever did mine..."

"Yeah? How bad was he?"

Truthfully, though it's been very little interaction anyway, he really _wasn't_. The memory Carlton has of him is certainly better than his impression of Luntz. Deputy Spencer even gave him advice once or twice, as a fellow... _detective-mind_. As Hank would say.

Carlton doesn't say any of that, but it seems like Shawn can tell.

"Oh. Nevermind. That makes sense—he'd definitely have preferred someone with your own ambitions to be his son, even..." He's grinning, now, and tilting his head to look back at the saloon. That is, with his hand. Exposing the inside of his neck. His grin is still the most unsettling thing. "But! I'm not broken up about it. I've spent eight years with no problem avoiding Henry, and I doubt that I'll start having trouble now."

And with that, like a businessman donning his coat in preparation to leave, Shawn tucks his head underneath one arm. Carlton catches a muffled _g'night, Lassie_ before the man disappears.

He'd likely be upset if he wasn't stuck on the fact that, despite only making himself known to Guster in eight whole years, Shawn appeared to _him_ after just one night.

***

The only reason he didn't think of it before is because it wouldn't have occurred to him that a priest might be friendly face.

And the only reason _Juliet _didn't think of it, she says, is because she attends the Episcopalian church. She's only just learned much of Father Wesley.

But now, she meets up with Carlton outside of Guster's home and tells him how evasive the old man seemed in his answers. Which strikes his suspicion into a line of thinking that pushes everything into place.

All of the victims _were_ Catholic, weren't they? None of them would have felt suspicious of their own priest. Moreso, _all_ of them would have let their sins be known to said priest. And Father Wesley may as well have told Carlton straight to his face that he believed all of their deaths were inevitable. Nevermind the details he gave, he was _confident_ that the person responsible was an Agent of God.

The only reason Carlton even brings Juliet to the church with him, now, is because he needs her help to form a plan and doesn't want to wait a single second to head over there.

*

"Oh—Ms. O'Hara!" the Father greets before the church doors fully swing shut. "I thought you had all you needed? No offense, but, it's getting late."

"_She_ did, but now we have more questions," Carlton tells him, the least threateningly that he can.

Father Wesley does a good job of appearing composed, he thinks.

"Well, then, ask away."

The idea is that they're treating him like a mere witness, at least to start off with. He'll remain comfortable and therefore _calm_ for as long as they need him to be. To do so, Carlton sprinkles some truth into his act:

"Firstly, Father, I know what your personal theories about these murders are and I'm going to ask you to set them aside. _Secondly_... I believe that each of those men may have been killed in revenge for some transgression. And I know that each of them were members of this church, save for Drimmer—but if I was told correctly, a Sunday _was_ one of the days that he spent here. So what I'm asking, is, if any of them revealed anything to you in Confession that might be of help."

The Father's eyes widen for a short moment. Then he gives a confused sort of smile.

"You... must know I can't divulge that information, Carlton. I've taken an oath—"

"Of confidentiality, yes, but you see—they're all _dead_ now," he says, looking the other man directly in the eye. Searching for _some_ hint of guilt. "...Wherever they went, they're already there. So if you telling us what they told you makes any tangible difference, it will only be bringing _justice_ to their deaths. Because we'll be closer to finding the killer. Do you understand?"

In his peripheral, Juliet makes a face that he's sure is disapproval for his condescending tone, as that wasn't in the plan. He just couldn't help himself.

"I... only understand that _you_ don't understand how my oath works. Anything revealed to me in Confession is between that person, myself, and God. I can tell you that Benjamin, Harris, Thomas, and Cameron were all sinners in their own right, yes, but that's the extent of it."

Angry as Carlton is made by that, it's exactly what he wanted to hear. And much faster than he'd thought.

"Well, unfortunately for you, Father, the man upstairs isn't a defense for _purposefully obstructing justice_. But if that's the story you're sticking to, it's fine by me. I can wait outside your jail cell as long as it takes for you to tell us what we need."

*

Calming Hank down after escorting (an oddly compliant) Father Wesley into the cell in his office is the _real _feat. He himself isn't even a Catholic, but simply opposes the very idea of putting any man of the cloth behind bars. He believes Carlton must have lost his mind for a hot minute.

Ultimately, he's convinced that there's no other humane way to discourage Father Wesley from withholding information. He also concedes that maybe he could spend some time picking up the office. Throwing trash out, at least.

And while he does that, all Carlton and Juliet can do is wait. _Wait_ and continuously remind their suspect that he's only staying silent at a detriment to his own well-being. And then be continuously told that his vow of poverty has prepared him just fine for this. Carlton is accustomed to this sort of monotony, but it's actually getting quite annoying.

Over an hour in, it's a relief when Guster comes pounding on the door. Though mainly for Guster himself.

"Oh, thank God you're here—I got worried when neither of you came back after so long, and even more when I actually risked my black ass all the way to the church after curfew and... Hey, uh, what's Father Wesley doing in the cell?"

Carlton and Juliet take him outside to give him a similar treatment to Hank's. The difference is, he's allowed to know that Wesley is a real suspect.

That fact is received with a lot less grief than Carlton anticipated, considering the faith that the man clearly has. But it becomes clear soon enough that it's simply because Guster is distracted by a bigger worry—one that makes him want to speak to Carlton alone. The moment that Juliet is inside and the door is closed, his mouth is open:

"I need to talk to you about Shawn. Have you seen him tonight?"

He readily tells him the time and place that he did see Shawn earlier, but spares the details.

"...Why?"

Before continuing, Guster scans the streets.

"Well," he says slowly. "I've... been worried about him. And I've been completely neglecting to mention it, but now I think I _need_ to because I don't think I can keep convincing myself that the murders have nothing to do with it. The first thing—_you_ wouldn't have noticed, but ever since the first death, Shawn's been... aging. He's looked 23 for eight years, and then _bam_, just like that, he's actually looking closer and closer to being in his 30s. But he doesn't act like he believes that that's _weird_!"

That... certainly _is_ weird, but Carlton doesn't know what that would have to do with him. It just sounds like the crazy is going around. So all he does is stare expectantly for more until the other man gives it to him.

"...I don't want to believe that Shawn is keeping anything from me, but he's never really acted like this before. He's even going dormant more often and for longer."

"Dormant—?"

"Like sleeping, but for his whole spirit. So he basically disappears. He says he doesn't know where he goes or what he does when he's there, but just that when he comes back, it's like no time has passed and he feels refreshed. I mean—_I dunno_, it might just be because he's so stressed lately so he needs the rest more, but... it's just getting harder and harder to believe that it's only a coincidence I never see Shawn on the nights that—"

The door behind Carlton slams open. He's initially thankful for it, as he was only managing to keep up with about half of what Guster was telling him.

"Hope I'm not interruptin' nothin', Binky, but Father Wesley does have to make a sermon in less than seven hours. And if he isn't there when he's s'posed to be and folks find out he's _here_? We're, uh, gonna have about half the town rioting tomorrow."

Before he can have much of an emotional response to that, he hears Juliet and Guster simultaneously—

"_BINKY?_"

"Don't say a _word_ more about it," he snaps back at once so he can have time to think.

_God dammit._ The bastard was probably banking on this exact thing. But Hank's right, and without _proof_, he won't succeed in anything but turning all potential testimony against himself.

"...Alright, Father Wesley, I'll escort you back," Carlton finally relents, stepping into the office to face him. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to stay with you until sunrise."

*

Surely, if Father Wesley tried anything, Carlton could subdue him with ease. He's an old man who certainly doesn't get much physical activity, even factoring in that he may commit a murder once per week.

But Juliet and Guster insist on coming with him anyway. And he's been quickly losing his will to argue with them.

Then, he supposes very soon after they step outside that some backup isn't a bad idea. Weak as the old priest must be, his demeanor makes Carlton nervous that he knows something they don't. He doesn't appear to mind being watched all night, or even to be offended that they clearly don't trust him. The only emotion he shows is, oddly, a desire to get back to the church as soon as possible.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" he asks, abruptly stopping once St. Patrick's is in sight. He holds up the gaslamp between them so he can see the panic increase on Wesley's face. "What's in the church that you need so badly, huh?"

"Maybe some _sleep_," Guster suggests, sounding quite tired himself.

But Wesley doesn't look it, and he doesn't claim so, either. He just looks around, wide-eyed, at the surrounding darkness. Up at the gibbous moon. Down the empty road. His hands shake.

"It's just... very late," he finally says. "And cold. I'd feel safer on hallowed ground."

"So would I," Guster chimes in again.

Carlton looks to Juliet, hoping to find his own skepticism on her face. She just looks like she's thinking. He sighs.

"...Right. Well, let's go, then."

He didn't personally find it all that cold a moment ago, underneath his three layers, but as soon as Carlton starts walking again, he feels it. At first he assumes that Father Wesley simply planted a seed of suggestion that he subconsciously latched onto.

But after a minute, and mostly down the road by now, he _really_ feels it. There isn't even any wind and he's chilled so badly to the bone that it hurts to move.

It takes him a moment to even _realize_ once he's stopped walking entirely. He pushes past the pain enough to look around at the others, who have all been affected just the same—except for Father Wesley, who is trembling by far the most, with utter terror on his face.

"Do you hear that?" the old man mutters.

All Carlton hears, for a few seconds, is the distant rustling of leaves and his own breath. But then... he catches what sounds like thunder.

Wait, no—like _horse hooves_.

"That can't—"

"It's _him_," Wesley rasps, promptly pushing his legs forward like it's the hardest thing he's ever done in his life. But he only manages a few short strides before falling, and then being helped back up by Carlton, who is also fighting with everything he has just to move—

And then he's facing the opposite direction on the road, and the Headless Horseman is coming for them.

"_Shawn?_" he and Guster both gasp at once. The latter grabs Juliet and jumps out of the way while Carlton stays with Father Wesley, right in the center of the road, directly facing what's coming.

Wesley won't move at all. He's just frozen, almost as though he's _presenting_ his head to the axe that the Horseman wields—that he has _never_ held before, as far as Carlton has seen him. The head tucked in the middle of Shawn's opposite arm has never been so expressionless, either.

He doesn't have time to think of what that means. He just sees the axe beginning to swing and follows his instincts, wrapping his arms around Father Wesley's chest and dropping himself backward so as to pull the man to the ground with him—

There's no mistaking the metal slicing through skin, but after the slightest bit of red appears, the axe stops like it's hit a wall. Carlton lands on the stone path to the church and watches from underneath as the horse rears up with a shriek, so far vertical that it almost falls onto its own back. He watches Shawn fall off, head still under his arm, and... he still sees someone sitting in the spot that Shawn just was. Someone with long, black hair, a hauntingly angular face, and an axe in one hand.

Then it disappears. The horse gets back on four legs and shakes its head. Warmth floods back to Carlton's chest and every other part of him.

It seems that the moment either of them have any ability to move, he and Guster both rush to the headless body that's pushing itself up off the ground and muttering to itself.

"Woah... haven't had a headrush like _that_ since I did a flip off Gus's roof—"  
"What the_ hell_ was that, Shawn?"

"Yeah, uh, you have some explaining to do _right _fucking now."

"Huh?" He takes a few seconds to stand up, groaning from soreness all the while. "Gus, Lassie, how'd you both get here? Wait..." Then he seems to notice the passed out priest far behind them. "Oh no. What happened?"

Before anyone can answer that, some running footsteps turn their heads.

Juliet stops several feet away, shoulders heaving, hair thoroughly messed up, eyes crazed. She points a finger at Shawn, then erratically moves it between him and the other two.

"You... you KNOW him?"


	6. take on me

Carlton feels bad for it, but in the moment, he'd forgotten that Father Wesley was still there and... still bleeding. It's luckily a very shallow wound and not one that should have any long-term effects as long as they wrap it and then get him to the hospital as soon as possible.

He'd apologize and ask the man to please not tell anyone what he saw, but he's still quite out of it. He was likely barely conscious for _any_ of it.

"Well, look on the bright side—now we know who the killer is!" Shawn says as they enter Guster's house, immediately attracting all eyes to him.

"Yeah, _you_," Carlton growls.

"Uh, clearly it was something _controlling_ him," Guster corrects.

Which he of course knew because if he didn't, he wouldn't even be in Shawn's presence right now, but he's too annoyed to care about semantics.

"Killer or not," Juliet jumps in, possibly the most annoyed of them all, "I can't believe that _both_ of you have been friends with the Headless Horseman this whole time without telling me!"

"I'm not sure if I would say _friends_," Carlton grumbles, at the same time that Shawn says,

"Hey, don't blame _them_, Jules, I made it pretty clear I didn't want anyone else knowing—wait," He turns to Carlton and pouts. "You wouldn't?"

And—"Did you just call me _Jules?_"

There's a lot to catch her up on, including several years prior to these murders. It sounds like as long as Guster has known Juliet, so has Shawn, and now he knows far more about her than she could hope to know about him. She ultimately seems... okay with that.

Carlton really doesn't think that she should be, but he can't say it doesn't make things more convenient for the four of them as a unit.

*

Even after the dust has settled the next morning, Guster won't let anyone forget that it was his theory that wound up being right.

"Yeah, your theory that you swooped in with at about the _last_ minute," Shawn reminds him.

"Considering _you_ were the one getting possessed, Shawn, I don't think you have any room to talk."

"Uh, actually, Gus, I think that gives me _all_ the room to talk. Some outside force was making _me_ do the killing, so it must have something to do with me."

"Then what do _you_ think connects the victims to you?" Carlton asks, irritated with how flippant Shawn sounds.

"Well, I..._ did_ kind of hate all of them?"

Juliet throws Shawn a look, and he throws up his hands.

"But not enough to want to _kill_ them, I swear! Maybe scare them a bit, maybe get 'em fired or make them fall into piles of shit or something, but I've never physically hurt anyone who didn't _really_ deserve to be hurt."

None of the others really have an issue believing _that_, but—

"Wait, how could you hate _Father Wesley_?" asks Guster. He looks like he might actually get upset.

But Shawn immediately backtracks. "Okay, I don't _hate _hate him. But, I mean... yeah, _okay_, Gus, you _know_ church never made me feel great, alright? So yes, I felt like I kinda hated him back when I was a kid because he was in charge of the whole thing as far as I could tell, and I don't feel bad for having that grudge."

They all stare at him. Carlton wonders if he's the only one who sympathizes.

"Okay, I _do_ feel bad that the grudge might have almost killed him. But we've made it clear that's not my fault."

After some awkward silence, and some breakfast, and some cursory yardwork just to make sure that _something_ is consistently being done with his time, Guster is the one yet again to present the group with a sensible theory—at the same time that he presents them with their tea:

What if it actually _is_ Shawn's grudges that are killing people?

"Each victim was someone who's done bad things that pissed Shawn off personally," he explains, darting around the room to fill everyone's cup. Including one for Shawn, as he must be too distracted to realize. "But _not_ bad enough to warrant any real punishment. He might have _liked_ to do something more concrete, but he didn't. Because he knew it wouldn't be right. Because it was just personal. So _maybe_, whatever it is that's taking advantage of Shawn's dormant states to control him is specifically using all the darker feelings that he hasn't acted on."

The next ten or so seconds, between the other three, are spent in silent amazement. Shawn's the one that breaks it.

"Damn, buddy, you... definitely have my number."

Juliet and Carlton nod, but then after a beat, the former seems to hesitate to ask,

"What was so bad about Cameron?"

Then it's silent again, this time painfully awkward for the moments that it lasts.

Luckily Shawn is too _dead_ to be afraid to tell her, "No offense, Jules, but he was courting someone young enough to be his own daughter. That's just gross."

***

Carlton's job gets more difficult from there on out. Because this isn't a murder investigation anymore. It's not even a _mortal_ investigation anymore.

Knowing that the true culprit behind it all is, at best, another ghost—and at _worst_ an abstract concept—_should_ firstly mean that this is Shawn's territory now. It takes an otherworldly being to know an otherworldly being, as they say.

But they also know that it is specifically when Shawn is dormant that he is being controlled. So the natural immediate solution is for him to try very hard to _not_ go dormant for as long as possible. Which means avoiding things that exhaust him in any capacity, but especially a spiritual one. He is, essentially, trying to stay awake the human equivalent of multiple days in a row.

Unless Carlton wants to bring about another murder sooner, then, he can't expect much involvement from the resident Horseman.

At the same time, without any idea of who or what this other force actually is or how to stop it, Shawn's _taking it easy_ just feels like prolonging of the inevitable rather than a real solution, and Carlton can only think of how long he'll have to just _wait out_ murder after murder until perhaps, _one day_, all of Shawn's personal grudges run out...

And he can't imagine _Shawn_ is comfortable with that, either. In fact, he has quite a solid reason to believe that Shawn isn't. Amongst others the man is only ever casual and facetious, but Carlton has woken up in the middle of the night a few times, now, to witness him pacing in the living room. He looks serious, then. He rubs at his eyes and pulls at his hair like any living man might, only with his head in the wrong spot. He fervently whispers and gestures to himself. He sits on the floor and stares at nothing.

Carlton tries not to watch for long. He just often has nothing else to do but return to a bed that feels, at that moment, unwelcome—or to pace around himself.

He doesn't _want_ to imagine what it's like to know that you've been used like a tool to commit murder. But it happens. And it makes him feel worse for managing to do so little to fix it.

What little plan of action he does scrounge together surrounds such a flimsy piece of information that it takes up a mere day, for the most part. He describes the dark-haired figure that he saw to Shawn, who has no idea who it could be. He tells Guster and Hank, who both know just about every single person in Sonora, but any living people with that hair have an entirely wrong body type or age. He asks all the local inns if they have record of someone by that description staying for any amount of time recently, and of _course_ they don't remember things like that.

He asks Woody if he recalls anyone who looked like that dying for as far back as the man can remember—and while he luckily does not find that question odd, he says that he can't be at all sure past a few months prior anyway. That all dead bodies have started to look the same to him.

He even resorts to asking the (other) local crazies about any other ghost stories they might have. None of them match.

Carlton has to wonder, after a point, if he's even going about this search correctly. If it makes _any_ sense to apply police methods to discovering the identity of an apparition. How could he possibly know? He held little if any belief in the supernatural just a week ago. This just... is not his element.

Once again, he feels unsure in his perceptions. He can't help but wonder if this is all an elaborate nightmare. Maybe he's still asleep on the train and he'll awake to solve a _real_ case soon. Maybe the train exploded and he died and now he's in Hell, to be tortured forever as punishment for his adultery, among other things.

Then he feels terrible just at the notion of certain things from these past ten days _not being real_—and that alone, part of him thinks, might be just another part of the punishment. Maybe his own self-awareness is the Hell.

And _then_ Carlton understands that that's certainly overdramatic and just not true. Even including the ghost story that he's living in, things feel too _real_ for that to be true. No, he... he just feels like a failure. He feels useless.

Most of all, he feels like drinking.

*

He might be scared sober if he wasn't far gone enough by now to feel comfortable pissing outside in the first place.

Though no amount of alcohol, at least not so far, is going to keep him from jumping at the sight of a man suddenly emerging from the darkness _just_ as he's buttoned his fly. Least of all one who has a mannequin head and a drawn-on face instead of a real one of either.

"What, no good?" comes Shawn's voice. "Don't tell me I stole and befaced this from a seamstress for_ nothing_, Lassie."

"It's—" He doesn't know how he manages to still think like this, but, "It's _de_-faced."

"No, I drew a face _on_ it, see?" Shawn points to the face. It's actually quite well-drawn.

Carlton blinks slowly. "Honestly, I prefer just seeing you with no head. Or looking at your other one."

"Well... if _other_ people see me with no head, Lassie, bad things will happen," he says slowly. "This is so I can look like I have a head from a distance. You know?"

"Oh." He's impressed, but he'd still rather look at the other one. "Good job. Now come have a drink with me."

Without thinking he grabs Shawn's shoulder and pulls him along, intending to return inside the saloon—

Then Shawn grabs _his_ shoulder and makes him stop.

"I can't drink anymore, remember? And even if I could, I can't be seen up close by anyone else."

"Oh. Right." Now he's sad. The idea of never being able to drink anymore ever is so _sad_. "Well, I'll just go get my own drink, then—"

But Shawn stops him again.

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Oh, no, definitely not," he laughs. "I won't have had enough 'till I'm dead."

The weight of that doesn't even occur to him until Shawn lets go of him momentarily, then steps quickly to the other side of him. He faces Carlton from there, blocking him from going any further toward the front of the building.

"Uh, Lassie, what does _that_ mean?"

"Well, it seems like the best way I'm gonna become equipped with the supernatural, at this rate," he sighs. Since he can't walk further, he just leans against the wall. "I really... _don't _know how I can help you unless I just become a ghost myself, Shawn."

"...Okay, well, _don't_ do that," Shawn tells him, clearly trying to lighten the mood like he always does, but Carlton is already internally sinking. It's too late for another drink, now. It's too late for anything. "And hey, I'm sure that you'll come up with something. You're a successful, big city detective, you—"

"Yeah, a big city detective who doesn't know shit about ghosts. Honestly, I don't know why you thought we could work together when I had no clue what you even _were_ when we met... I was so convinced it was all _fake_, Shawn. I couldn't accept any of it until you spelled it out. Clearly I'm not cut out for this."

"You're accepting it _now_, aren't you?" Shawn takes his shoulder again. He doesn't know whether to lean forward or away. "Aren't you?"

"...I guess I must be."

"Then your first time means nothing, simple as that. Hell, you still reacted way better than Gus did when I first popped up in my ghostly form to _him_—I had to chase him around immediately afterward to make sure he didn't run into town all in hysterics, and _then_ he was in catatonic shock for almost 24 hours afterward. Granted, maybe I could have come in quieter, or during the day, or while he was actually awake..."

Some distant part of Carlton recognizes that that should be funny, but he quickly becomes too dizzy to continue standing up. So he doesn't.

"Oh shit, Lassie, are you—?"

"I'm fine," he says, with one cheek pressed into the wood and his ass now in mud. "I guess I pretty much have to stay here forever anyway."

His life in Santa Barbara is ruined, after all. His marriage is ruined. Almost every dream he's had lately has reminded him of that fact, mainly in the form of watching Victoria getting the axe, or him getting the axe _from_ Victoria and then watching, as a mere head, as she chops up the rest of his body and also kills her own horse, for some reason, and on one occasion as _she's_ the one who beheads Shawn... And even without those dreams, he'd know it just as intensely. He hasn't been intimate with her in so long. There's just no fixing it.

"I'm sure it'll be okay, Lassie," comes Shawn's voice, much softer than usual. As the man kneels beside him, he realizes that he said all of that out loud. "If not with Victoria, you're still a... rugged man, with a _very_ enviable sternum bush peakin' out above that collar there, and there are plenty of women out there who'll want to be... intimate with you."

"...I don't think I _want_ to be intimate with women," Carlton admits quietly.

Part of him still knows that that was a bad idea, that surely the other man will want to get away from him now, but his heartbeat is stable. It only rises when, after a long pause, Shawn touches his hand and says,

"Well, things will be okay anyway."

Realizing that his peripheral actually caught a mouth moving, Carlton looks up to find that the mannequin head is gone. Shawn is holding his real one over his neck by the hair.

"How do you know?"

"Because I said so. Now, let's get you home."

He doesn't have the energy nor the will to protest, then, as Shawn hauls him up and walks him around to the darkness behind the saloon, where Blueberry is waiting. Not only because he feels he might pass out very soon, but because Shawn has a remarkable amount of strength. He manages to pull Carlton up onto his horse's back with ease.

It's a smooth ride to Guster's place, at least thanks to the alcohol. Carlton wraps his arms around Shawn's chest and rests his forehead on Shawn's shoulder without fear. When it stops, he feels only disappointment.

Instead of telling him to get off immediately, Shawn just says, "Hey, do me a favor."

"Anything," he mumbles. "As long as it's not illegal, immoral, or contrary to the California Police Code of Conduct."

He hears Shawn actually _giggle_.

"Just... get some real sleep for once, Lassie."

***

Shawn admits to the group, after almost another full week has passed, that he's getting tired. Even without _doing_ much like making himself solid or manipulating the living world—at which he glances at Carlton, who has just a vague understanding of _why_—he feels like he might go crazy if he doesn't get some spiritual rest soon. He can't keep up the focus needed to stay entirely present for much longer, he claims.

"So I gotta be honest, I think we should just change the whole plan. All in favor of enlisting the help of a witch, say _aye_."

"...If there were any witches in Sonora, I think you'd already know about it, Shawn," says Guster.

"Alright, other idea—all in favor of summoning an even _more_ powerful and dangerous spirit to catch the one that's controlling me, much like one might enlist a dog to catch a fox?"

Shawn is the only one who raises his hand.

"_Maybe_," Juliet starts after a moment, "...it doesn't matter all that much _what_ is doing it, so much as that _how_ it's committing the murders is by using your darker feelings, like Gus said. The solution to _that _could be... just stop having dark feelings."

She shrugs, and there's an immediate, collective sigh. Juliet has been clearly annoyed with all of them, but especially with Shawn, for evidently not mourning her deceased boyfriend whatsoever. With Shawn and Carlton, it's for actual insensitivity, so he can't blame her. But with Guster, all the man did was neglect to defend Luntz when asked.

He doubts she'll ever understand until she's finished grieving, really, so there's really no choice but to wait it out.

"Trust me, Jules, I _wish_ it were that simple," Shawn tells her. He seems annoyed right back. "I definitely haven't actually _thought_ about Father Wesley in a long time, let alone felt any malice."

"But you _did_ for the others," says Guster.

"Yeah, of course. Drimmer is obvious, I've only had five months to see Trout be... _himself_ in the first place, Swaggerty's made decisions that affect _all_ of Sonora on the regular for the past few years—"

"And Cameron became the Deputy Sheriff about _five_ years ago," Juliet adds, leaning forward. Carlton assumes that she's just being petty again, for a second, before he realizes and leans forward himself—

"And Wesley's been making you feel bad about yourself since childhood. _That's it._ The murders are being committed according to your grudges in order of depth, from the outside in. _My_ question is... why such a gap?"

"Because of the time he spent travelling," Guster answers before Shawn can, surprising all of them with his bluntness. "Anyone else he might have hated in-between doesn't live in Sonora. And he was too popular to have any enemies in town before he left."

When Shawn doesn't immediately comment on that, Carlton turns his head towards him.

"In that case," says Juliet, "we should be able to know who Shawn will be made to kill next. And we could get them on hallowed ground ahead of time."

"Assuming he doesn't just keep going after Father Wesley again until the job is done," says Guster. "Although, he probably won't be trying to leave the church grounds at all anytime soon..."

As he trails off, his and Juliet's attention finally follows Carlton's, to where Shawn's head sits on his lap and frowns to himself.

"Shawn? You alright?"

"...Yeah, perfectly fine, Gus." He sounds out of it. "My dad might not be, though."

*

The only _possible_ deeper grudge is against Henry Spencer. Not just in amount of time, but in the extent of the darker feelings, too—or at least, that's what Carlton guesses. Were he in Shawn's place, that would be the precise explanation that he'd apply to his mother.

Perhaps, if it were possible, it would be better if he took Shawn's place. For all the complicated feelings Carlton has, and as difficult it would be to reconcile that he doesn't want his mother to die but also does not want to be responsible for saving her, he at least _has_ interacted with her in the past eight years and accepted the fact that he will again.

Meanwhile Shawn outright changes his mind about being too tired and makes a point of pushing his dormancy as far into the future as possible. It gives the rest more time to figure out a plan, but it's also hellish to deal with him, in that time.

An irritable Headless Horseman makes Carlton wonder what an actual _vengeful_ Horseman must be like—because he's already frightened, at moments. The pacing at night becomes loud enough to wake him up on its own. The others start to wake up, too. Shawn's footprints wear into the floor and leave burn marks by the morning. Then Guster asks him if he can do it outside. So he burns circles in the grass.

It takes too much focus to stay present without being solid anymore, he says. And it gets even worse if he doesn't have someone or something to distract him.

Carlton is the one who can most afford to _not_ be awake in the morning between the other three, so after another two days, it's decided that he's the one who should distract Shawn at night. Keep him from causing more property damage, mostly.

He isn't opposed to that, but he does wonder how he's supposed to make any more headway in this case if his job has simply become _help Shawn stay awake_.

"Gus and Jules said they've been talking to Father Wesley about consecrating my dad's property while he's not on it," Shawn says when he brings that up. "It sounds like he's too afraid to leave the church even in the daytime, but I'm sure they can convince him eventually. You're doing a noble job in the meantime, Lassie."

He assumes that Shawn's joking, despite the hand on his shoulder. He really can't take it seriously regardless, as that doesn't account for Henry leaving his property.

"Which _can_ very certainly happen soon, even late at night," Carlton tells him. "I've told Hank to hold off on lifting the curfew, but if another week passes without any murder, he'll have no choice."

"Eh, I'm sure Henry falls asleep before the sun even sets most nights. And not even just 'cause he's old—he's _always_ been an 'early to bed, early to rise' guy. He'll be fine."

"...Are you really willing to risk that?"

If they weren't on a walk outside on a nearly moonless night, Carlton expects he'd see much more obvious discomfort on Shawn's face. Judging, at least, by the fact that Shawn says absolutely nothing. He understands, but pushes his luck:

"You should just tell him what's going on to his face, so he can take proper precautions _himself_ and you won't have to worry about going dormant."

"I won't have to worry?" he snaps, loud enough to make Carlton jump. "Lassie, I don't have any precedent for this _either way_. I don't have a goddamn _clue_ what's going to happen to me the next time I go dormant! I don't know what this thing _is_, so how can I be sure it'll stop just because there's no one available to kill? How do I know that it won't just _trap_ me in that state until Father Wesley or my dad or someone else _is_ out and about? No matter what fucking happens, Lassie, other than me just staying up, I _am_ going to fucking worry."

It's a miracle, frankly, that Shawn doesn't exhaust himself into dormancy that very night.

***

And it's whiplash, just a couple nights later. According to Guster, Shawn pulled this sort of thing just about every year even back when he was alive.

That is, it's about to be Halloween, and suddenly nothing at all about the previous week matters.

"It's the _energy_," Shawn explains. "Everyone's focusing on the dead, and simultaneously they're more alive than they are the whole rest of the year. They're drunk, they're eating candy, they're in costumes—and most _importantly_, they're celebrating things exactly like _me_."

Meaning, whether influenced by some actual ancient energy or not, it's the one day of the year that Shawn can get away with walking around in public as though he's alive. All he has to do is wear a pumpkin on his head (which Guster carves for him), and so long as he doesn't stop to talk to anyone particularly perceptive, he's simply assumed to be in a very good costume. And even if he _does_, any who might see evidence that there is no head inside the pumpkin won't be believed by anyone they tell. The _last_ place anyone expects to see the famed Headless Horseman is in plain sight.

Beyond that, Sonora's streets will be busy late into the night. Therefore if Carlton can just make sure that Henry is _in_ those streets, there will be no murders to worry about in any case.

And he thinks of the perfect way to do so on Halloween morning, when Hank asks for his help in crowd control for the latter half of the day.

"A lot of adults'll be at Harvest dinners n' dances, as y'know, and that leaves teenagers to get rowdy by themselves and do their pranks... Nothing too nasty, o'course, since they know to be afraid of the Horseman, but I like to prevent what property damage that I can."

"Uh... I actually haven't been feeling too hot, Hank," Carlton says, and it's not really a lie. He's been awake almost twenty hours and had intended to sleep through most of the day. "Pretty sure I got some kinda cold coming on—and I know my body, it'll almost definitely be worse by tonight. You think you can get someone else? I mean, if you can't, I'll still do it, but—"

"Oh, no you _won't_, Binky," Hank snaps, getting right in front of him at once to feel his forehead. "You are a little warm... Yeah, I'm not having you passin' that to every kid in town. What you're gonna do is get your ass back to Guster's place and go back to bed, and _I'll_ just... dammit, who else _can_ I get?"

As confidently as he expected all that, Carlton can't help but be distracted for a moment by Hank's fatherly behavior. Then he remembers.

"Uh... what about Spencer?"

"_Henry?_ ...I dunno, he's rejected every invitation I've made to come back to the Sheriff's office yet—"

"Then _don't_ invite him to take his old job back permanently, just tell him you need some help for one night only. Offer him a drink as payment, or something."

Hank looks like he's thinking about it for just a few seconds before telling him that that's a pretty good idea, calling him sharp as ever, and slapping him on the back. And ordering him once again to go get some sleep.

He gladly takes that order.

*

He still has to wake up around sunset to take on a shift of keeping an eye on Shawn. Not to distract him, this time, but just... being in charge of his head while the body walks around with Guster, and while Juliet is in charge of a children's Halloween party at the schoolhouse.

It occurs to him, though, that the only real reason _he's_ being saddled with this is because he doesn't care for Halloween all that much. Which doesn't seem very fair, if only on principle.

"What, you don't _like_ spending time with me?" says Shawn's head, managing to startle him badly for the first time in several days. It wakes him up entirely.

"You can still talk? Unless—did you just say that out loud to Guster, too?"

"I sure can, and... no, I didn't. At least I'm pretty sure. It is hard, but I_ can_ keep the heads separate."

"So... you're saying that you're spending unnecessary energy right now." Carlton frowns.

"Well, I wouldn't call it unnecessary."

"Why not?"

"Because I doubt _you'd_ want to hear everything that I'm saying to Gus all night. Or," Shawn smirks in a way that wakes Carlton up further, "vice versa."

He _says_ that, but then still spends a while relaying to him what his body is doing—the compliments that he gets for the "costume," mostly, along with the teenagers that he stops from pranking smaller children and the contests that Gus participates in. Rather than the one-sided conversation that he could be hearing, though, he's jut being constantly told what he's missing out on as though he even has the option.

"Sorry, Lassie, I just—_actually_, no, I'm _not_ sorry," he says. "I won't apologize for being excited on the one day of the year that I don't have to hide."

That being the second time that Carlton has heard that, he has to ask a question that's been burning in his mind since the first:

"Why _do_ you even feel the need to hide the rest of the year, anyway? You're practically revered in this town. No one would try to harm you even if they could."

Shawn sighs, looking like he wishes he could turn his head for just a moment. But he's stuck on the living room table.

"Because I don't want anyone who knew me when I was alive to know that I'm dead, now. I don't want to be _mourned_. God, I especially don't want anyone to realize that I didn't make it out there... I'd prefer everyone believe that I'm still travelling like I said I'd be."

"...And people who _didn't_ know you before?"

"They could still potentially describe my appearance to others. _Plus_, I... am obviously used to it lately, but. It frankly feels... _vulnerable_ to be seen without my head on. It's like a stranger seeing me naked, in a way."

Carlton suddenly feels like his heart might jump out of his throat—to keep him from asking what's been on his mind for _weeks_, now—

"So why did you show yourself to me in the first place?"

It can't have been because of the murders. He thought about that—Shawn wouldn't have had to be _convinced_ to ask for his help, if that was the case.

It can't have been just to tease him, either. There are certainly other skeptics in Sonora that he could have done that to, but didn't.

Everything it could have been, meanwhile, he's been too afraid to think about. He's terrified even right now, not only in waiting for an answer but in how _obvious_ it probably is how much this has plagued him.

"Because... uh." Shawn's mouth makes the motion to swallow, but he has no throat. He averts his eyes and pauses for a long time. "I gotta admit, Lassie, I don't really know. You just seemed... fun. It was an impulsive decision. I make a lot of those."

"...I suppose it was a good decision," Carlton concedes quietly. A little outside of himself. "If your horse hadn't tripped, who knows if you'd have my help now." _Or if I'd have yours._

Out of nowhere Shawn wheezes, snapping him back into it.

"Blueberry didn't trip," he says.

"...Yes, she did? I watched her trip and fling you off."

"I mean—yes, you watched her trip, but it wasn't _her_." For a second, then, Shawn almost seems _embarrassed_ to properly look at him. But he luckily doesn't have much of a choice. "I—it was _my_ focus breaking that made it happen. Remember how I said that sometimes she worked like an extra limb? Well, I got distracted for a split second, and I forgot how to use her."

Carlton vividly remembers the horse tripping _as_ Shawn first made eye contact with him. That must be obvious on his face, because—

"You just looked so _familiar_, somehow. Come to think of it, that might be why I felt drawn to you in the first place... I just—I don't know where, but I felt like I must know you from _somewhere_. And I still do, honestly. I just... shelved that thought, for a while. Figured maybe you just had one of those faces."

"I definitely do _not_ have one of those faces," Carlton has to laugh, at which Shawn joins in.

"Yeah, I know. No one else on _earth_ has ears that big."

He ignores that with much more ease than he might otherwise—he's too focused on his own confession, _startlingly_ ready to spill out.

"I could've sworn that I knew _you_ from somewhere else, too. I thought at first that maybe I saw you in Sonora long ago, but then I did the math—the last time I was here, you were already gone. And the last time we were _both_ here... you were only eight. And the only place _I've_ been in the past fifteen or so years... Did you ever have any business in Santa Barbara while you were still alive?" He can't believe he never asked that, before.

"Not—not that I can remember," Shawn says, quiet.

"You said you had a perfect memory. Other than—"

"Other than my death."

"Yes, that. Um. Shawn... you don't suppose that you—?"

"I might have."

Carlton realizes how far forward he's leaning, now. He might as well be on his knees and lying halfway across the table. And he looks, _really_ looks at the head sitting on the table in front of him, and he blinks away the haze of normalcy that he's become used to, and he finds Shawn somehow more familiar than _ever_.

For the first time, now, he picks Shawn's head up, and he strides toward the door.

"Woah—where are we going? I was really enjoying just sitting by the fire and talking, to be honest—"

"To town. I need to figure something out," is all that Carlton can articulate at the moment.

"Wait!"

He stops mid-stride at the sound of Shawn's panic. "What?"

"It's _Halloween_, Lassie. You can't go to town without a costume!"

*

He'd normally be pissed that Hank isn't locking his office when he's not in it, but at the moment it's convenient. Not that Carlton doesn't have a key. He's just on a mission and impatient.

It sure is a good thing that it's Halloween, too, as he can't be sure whether he'd have had the sense to not openly carry a severed head through town otherwise. That alone could count as a costume right now—as much as Shawn insists it isn't.

"I'm more of a prop. _Maybe_ a decoration, if I'm sitting on a desk like this. If you'd put me on your shoulder I could have been like a second head, though..."

Carlton is too busy searching through Hank's shelves to dignify any of that. And dammit, the man did clean some, clearly, but did _not_ organize. He just shoved all of his boxes wherever they could fit with no regard for how easy it would be to find them later. Of course, he probably didn't expect anyone other than himself would ever try.

"Mind telling me what you're looking for?" Shawn says. "Maybe I can help."

"Not unless you wanna call your body down here—oh, _got it_."

He hesitates to actually reach inside the box once he drops it onto Hank's desk. It's only that he feels bad for even needing what's in the box when he _used_ to have a famously thorough mental log of every criminal he'd ever busted. Of course, he has much more to remember now. But he still wishes that that skill hadn't been failing him lately.

Then he starts flipping through the newspaper clippings like he won't have a second chance. Because it _has_ to be in here. Every homicide case he's been involved in for the past eight years got into the Santa Barbara Press one way or another—

Oh... he feels extra horrible for not remembering _that_ one.

It's at the very bottom of the stack, because despite Hank's cluttered lifestyle, he still sorted these in chronological order.

It's the case that got him the rank of Lead Inspector in the first place. _Eight years ago._

Despite that—despite the fact that he couldn't recall it in all this time, Carlton doesn't need to see beyond the title of the article to have it all come rushing back, to have _everything_ suddenly make so much more sense than any other revelation he's had. He especially doesn't need to look further than the picture of the killer.

He's so caught up in it that he only just now realizes how long it's been since Shawn last spoke.

Then Carlton looks at him and finds an entirely expressionless face. There's no life whatsoever in Shawn's eyes.

"Oh, _shit_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "anything, as long as it's not illegal, etc." line is a direct reference to the 1980 made for tv film adaptation of sleepy hollow. it's on youtube for free and jeff goldblum plays ichabod. PLEASE watch it.


	7. flowers grow out of my grave

The door to the Sheriff's office slams open hardly two seconds later. Guster and Juliet come rushing in, dressed respectively as a skeleton and a clown, and speaking simultaneously.

"Lassiter?"

"Carlton?"

Juliet makes eye contact with him, looking briefly relieved, then somewhat panicked again. "Oh, you _are_ here. Shawn told us that you took his head here and that you were acting hysterical. He sounded worried."

"And then about a minute after saying that, he just disappeared," Guster adds, still catching his breath.

"I wasn't acting—wait, he _disappeared_?"

Guster nods. "Walked off and didn't come back and we have no idea where he went. Is... that—?"

Carlton lifts Shawn's head up from behind the box to show them, yes, it is. And that thinks he knows why Shawn disappeared.

"But he wasn't even _close_ to being dormant—was he?"

"He wasn't. He was clearly having a good time! One second he was fine, the next second, gone. It couldn't have been _this_—"

"The other ghost is feeding off of vengeful feelings that Shawn has," Carlton interrupts. "She'd definitely be impatient by now. And if he saw something that made him feel those things, maybe she was able to just... do the ghost equivalent of knocking him out."

The other two just stare at him.

"..._She?_"

"There's no time to explain—we need to split up and get Henry Spencer to hallowed ground _now_."

*

Carlton might have overestimated how full the streets would be at this hour. He can count the number of people he sees at any given moment on one hand.

He feels so stupid and guilty that he can hardly _see_ straight—he keeps thinking that every lit jack-o-lantern out there could be Shawn in the distance, and he doesn't even see Sheriff Hank at all until he runs right into him—

"_Hank!_" Carlton just barely remembers to hide the head behind his back as he furiously glances around. "Where's Henry?"

"Uh, he's gone home on account of not really bein' needed anymore—"

"_Dammit_—where's his house?"

"Down... by the mines—_wait_, Binky, I thought you were sick? What's going—HEY!"

"I'LL EXPLAIN LATER!" Carlton shouts, already running off and feeling worse, now. Both for being rude to Hank and because this is _his_ fault... He should have realized this would happen, _obviously_ Shawn was going to see him at some point while out and about and get upset...

To make up for it, he just runs in the direction of the gold mines as fast as his legs are willing to carry him and then some. It's so dark he can hardly see a thing, and the cold air rips at his throat and lungs, and his boots begin to scrape his ankles, and he struggles to maintain his grip on Shawn's head, and he keeps on going.

It feels like a much longer way away from town than it should be, but he still keeps going.

As he finally sees the silhouette of a man on the path that he's on, Carlton rides a wave of relief and shouts himself practically hoarse to get Henry's attention.

The old man then turns around, but doesn't shout back. Carlton immediately feels a familiar painful chill and, as his muscles seize up from the cold mid-stride, falls nearly onto his face. Shawn's head goes rolling. Here come the horse hooves.

_Oh, God no._

He crawls frantically across the dirt path to get a hold of Shawn's head before it can be trampled—unsure what would happen, but not wanting to risk it. Not even as a hoof stamping down clips his leg. The pain doesn't matter to him right now.

"_Shawn, stop!_" Carlton yells out from the ground as he passes, even more terrifying than last time. Possibly due to a darker sky. Most likely due to the pumpkin.

When there isn't the slightest indication that the Horseman even heard, let alone responded, he remembers that that's _not_ actually Shawn. And he remembers the newspaper article in his breast pocket, and he takes a breath just to make sure he will be heard no matter what—

"_ALICE BUNDY!_"

The horse stops. Nothing else changes, but Carlton finds the strength to scramble to his feet and subsequently the bravery to walk down the road, as fast as he can in this thick cold.

"It was _you_ who was killing people, Alice," he says. "The same way that you did in life. You took an axe and beheaded four people, the last of whom was a man that you believed—whom we _all_ believed... was named _Ichabod Fletchman_. You were caught within the minute and sent to trial and deemed insane, and you spent the last eight years in an asylum—all up until about six weeks ago, when you hanged yourself in your room. The newspapers only talked about it once, but I remember it."

Still using Shawn's body, she's turned around, now. The arm that holds the axe is shaking. Carlton could so easily be hit by a mere toss of it, but he keeps walking. He holds out Shawn's head in one hand and the article of that case in the other, and he repeats some words that were spoken to him about three weeks ago:

"The severing of one's head from their body is a particular kind of trauma on the soul, Alice. So is dying while using a false identity. Shawn wasn't allowed to die as himself, so he couldn't remember his own death, so he could never grieve himself. You _turned_ him into this and now you're turning him into something worse. _Why?_"

**

Shawn only wanted to help her.

He could have turned Alice into the police earlier, but he didn't. He simply did not see a murderer, not even from witnessing the aftermath of the very murders that she had committed. What he saw was just... a woman who was grieving, and for very good reason: Her best friend in the world was dead. Furthermore, the blame could be easily be pinned onto two other people.

The third that Alice killed could only be tangentially blamed and seemed more like some needless, symbolic revenge, however. Still, Shawn could still see that she just needed to be helped out of her madness. He understood how she felt; he knew that he would do the same if something happened to his own best friend. Even though he hadn't seen Gus in years.

It wasn't how he expected he would spend his time stopped in Santa Barbara, but he's always liked to take them as they come. He... really believed he could fix things.

But he couldn't. He couldn't keep Alice from killing a third, and then he couldn't stop her from just lashing out against _him_. All that he managed was to do was warn the police of the identity and address of the _Santa Barbara Beheader_ before he tried one last time to talk some sense into her.

And it really was his _last_ time.

She even had to kill his _horse_ in the process, for some fucking reason.

If Shawn had any memory of the time in-between then and showing up back home in Sonora, he thinks he'd have hated her for Blueberry's death. Otherwise, he still feels like he failed her. He actually set out _specifically_ to help her, but couldn't. What good could he possibly be, then?

Those were the thoughts in Shawn's head as he died. Some higher force promptly showed him _exactly_ what he could be good for.

**

_What would YOU have done, Shawn?_ is the very first thing that he hears upon remembering.

_...Uh, not THAT, Alice._

Yet somehow, he still understands. Goddamn his ability to _forever_ understand, but he can't help it. He easily sees how, when Alice finally died, he himself was the last remaining source of her grief and therefore where she was pulled to. How the concept of vengeance consumed her life and how it remained in death. How she only had the opportunity to do so through Shawn because her agony has rendered her spirit weak and unstable but for its connection to him and _his_ one weakness.

But she doesn't have that advantage over him anymore.

"Alice, you killed me for a _stupid_ reason," Shawn says—not just in their shared space, but aloud. He's been waiting to say this for eight whole years without even knowing it—it's _not_ staying silent. "And you cursed me to an eternity of looking horrifying instead of charming, and no sleeping, or eating... _But_ you also gave me the ability to bring real justice to people who deserve it. And also be two places at once. And make a door open just by wanting it to, which I _could_ already do while I was alive, but it's still nice. So for all that, I say we're even. Now, I'm begging you, _move on_."

A few seconds pass, and then Shawn uses his real head exclusively to say,

"_Watch out, Lassie._"

Carlton has enough time to merely raise an arm in front of his eyes before the pumpkin sitting on Shawn's shoulders explodes.

The blast isn't much, but some larger pieces do knock him off balance and onto the ground. At the same time that uncomfortable chill is entirely gone once again, so Carlton can't even bring himself to mind.

His heart rate is at an all-time high as he watches Shawn hop off the horse, pick up his head, and then reach out his other hand to him, though.

After Carlton pulls himself up, he immediately brings his own free hand to the back of Shawn's.

"I am... _so_ sorry," he practically chokes out.

"For what?" Shawn frowns, genuinely baffled. "You _saved_ me just now, didn't you?"

"Yeah, about a decade too _late_." He's been thinking about it since he remembered the case in full. It's _wrecking_ him. "I... I didn't take your tip as seriously as I should have. I should've gotten there sooner. _That case_... literally made me the man that I am today, Shawn, and you had to _die_ for it, all because I couldn't have just gotten there a _minute_ earlier..."

Maybe it's only because he's been dead for so long, but truly none of that upsets Shawn in the least. He squeezes Lassiter's hand and shrugs.

"Eh, dying wasn't so bad. I mean, really, Lassie, if you'd gotten there a minute earlier... I might have never gone back home. You might have never _come_ back home."

_Home,_ Carlton repeats in his mind.

He thinks of Santa Barbara, and _Victoria_, and how afraid he was to face her not so long ago. He doesn't feel afraid of that right now. He realizes that he still yet feels no pull to go back.

Now Shawn is balancing his head over his neck with one hand, and Carlton reaches forward with two to take it from him. One hand on either cheek, he brings it closer to his own.

This, he _is_ afraid of. Terrified, in fact. But it'll let him know whether or not he should stay.

And for the first time in eight years, Shawn is kissed. He experiences the sort of intimacy that he's craved since even before he died. His head's separation from his body isn't ignored nor merely tolerated but _embraced_. He's seen as he _wants_ to be seen, nothing more and nothing less.

The only problem is that he wishes so badly that he could push his own head forward as he kisses Lassiter back.

...That, and that his father is still evidently passed out in the distance. And that Gus and Juliet come running up _far_ too soon.

*****

November 1899

Carlton isn't giving up his jurisdiction in Santa Barbara for the Deputy Sheriff position just yet. Possibly not for a long while. There are still some things he needs to take care of, the most important of which he's doing first.

In the Santa Barbara public cemetery, there's one grave that stands out from the rest. The grass on top of it grows greener. The soil stays fertile. Goddamn _flowers_ grow out of it. It's considered a shame by local government and just about anyone who regularly visits their loved ones here that it's being removed, regardless of what Carlton tells them.

It's being _replotted_, first of all. It's going to be under a correct name instead of an alias that was made up in two seconds. And it's going to be reburied where the loved ones of that "lost soul" actually reside.

_Not_ that Shawn is going to be mourned. He doesn't need the proper burial to move onto the next life, either—nor does he _intend_ to move on anytime soon.

He just wants his grave to be where his home is. Specifically in Gus's backyard.

Gus is nervous about having an actual, physical dead body under his garden, but doesn't argue. Juliet thinks he belongs in the town cemetery. Henry, when he inevitably comes to understand, wants the grave on his own property.

As for Carlton, Shawn's remains feel like none of his business. He only cares about the Shawn that's present, the Shawn that he can touch and speak to.

Whatever else happens, he just wants to keep on hearing the Dullahan call out his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case yall didn't catch it, bc i'm very proud of it, i must point out that the entire fic up until shawn regaining his memory is entirely in lassiter's pov, bc shawn's actions were informed by what neither the audience nor even him knew yet. 
> 
> also, the pumpkin head exploding is an allusion to the shattered pumpkin found at the end of the original sleepy hollow story.
> 
> finally, i gotta say, YES this WAS an excuse to kill off psych characters that i hate. the only reason i didn't kill henry is bc that would've created a whole new facet of drama that i wasn't interested in exploring.
> 
> listen to the soundtrack on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/out-of-my-grave-fst) / [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpO1ETfG6QGbE4W6zK_COh79PMnkF7T1l)
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!


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